


Light Up, Light Up

by aimmyarrowshigh, colazitron



Category: Stereo Kicks (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, First Time, M/M, Mechanic/Footie Coach!AU, Meet-Cute, Snogging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 11:58:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2692118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimmyarrowshigh/pseuds/aimmyarrowshigh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/colazitron/pseuds/colazitron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The kids march along, but they've stopped singing.  It's cold in the November wind, and their little noses and cheeks are bright red.</p><p>Finally, across one more pasture, just beyond a load of sheep, there it is: Barclay Wheels, a white lean-to building with a bright red, cheerful sign and a row of cars parked at the front.  A few chickens wander around the pile of tires waiting for the incinerator.  Tom's not really sure what it's doing out here, seemingly far away from... cars, and thus, business, but he'll not dwell on that right now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light Up, Light Up

“Coach Tom! Ellie is kicking my seat _again_!"

"That's 'cos Danny threw a spitball at me!"

Tom sighs and looks back at his little team in the rearview mirror of the team van. "Guys, and ladies, can't we all get along?"

"It's not Ellie's fault, Coach Tom!" Tina calls immediately from where she's seated beside Ellie.

"I don't care whose fault it is, just settle down, please," Tom says.

"Coach Tom! We're bored! And I have to wee!"

"How badly?" Tom asks. He's absolutely _not_ in the mood for pee on the seats.

There's a moment of noisy contemplation that ripples through the van, and then a chorus of numbers come back to him. They seem to range in the lower end of the scale, though, so it's safe to wait.

"Alright, well how about a game of I Spy, then?" he suggests and smoothly continues, "You start, Johnny."

It's better usually to not actually give them a choice in activities, otherwise they'll whine and moan about how boring any given activity is even if three minutes in they'd have fun.

There's a tremendous sigh from a tiny body and then, "I spy... something gray."

"Ellie's sweatshirt!" Danny shouts.

"Danny's backpack!" Tina shouts.

"The ceiling!"

"The seatbelts!"

There are so many moments that make Tom wonder whether he really picked the lesser of two evils whenever they're in a car and he has them play games. Whether they whine or play, they're always _loud_.

"No!" Johnny crows. "It's smoke!"

Holy shit. He's right: there's gray smoke billowing from the front of the van.

A hushed silence falls over the bus before the tiny voices from the back start yelling again.

"Coach Tom, Coach Tom, the bus is on fire!"

"Is it supposed to do that, Coach Tom?"

"Is the van going to explode?"

"Are we going to crash and die?"

Tom pulls over to the side of the road and cuts the ignition, heart pounding. Where are they? Middle of nowhere, looks like. They're surrounded by fields and pastures, it's minutes from rain, and the bus might actually explode.

"Look, we didn't crash! And of course we're not going to die. Come on, kiddos, let's get out the van." He counts them all with a soothing palm to the crown of each little head as they jump out of the van and cling onto him.

He herds them all a little ways away from the bus and into the field. They were going to get muddy playing footie anyway and he thinks their parents will rather appreciate them returning without singed eyebrows. Just... as a precaution.

"What do we do now, Coach Tom?" Tina whispers, clutching Ellie's and Danny's hands.

"We, er," he says and rakes a hand through his hair. "We call for help."

Johnny shows Tom his iPhone. "I don't got no service."

"Don't have _any_ service," Tom corrects automatically. He looks around at the pastoral landscape. A cow moos at him, which is no help at all.

"Let's all check our phones. Maybe a different network has it covered," he suggests and highly doubts it. Aren't they all interconnected enough for that not to be an issue anymore now or something? Really, where _are_ they? He should've paid more attention.

No one has any mobile service out here, though, and the front of the van is still billowing dark smoke. Tom squeezes the little hands holding his and crouches down to say, as gently as he can, "Can you all wait right here for me? I'm going to open up the hood of the car and see if -- maybe it's simple to fix."

Six pairs of wide eyes stare at him.

"Don't die, Coach Tom!" Lillian's always been a dramatic one. 

He ruffles the nearest heads of hair and smiles at them. "Don't worry. I'll be just fine."

Tom coughs and bats at the smoke as he attempts to unlatch the hood. Through the smog, he can see that two of his kids are biting their nails, two are doing a wee dance, and the other two are desperately lifting their mobiles heavenward, seeking service.

The hood is rather hot to the touch so Tom pulls his sleeve down over his fingers and tries again. No such luck.

Okay. Okay then.

They have emergency phones along most motorways, right? If they keep following it, they should come across one eventually. He takes out his own mobile -- and then his coaching whistle. The kids, to their credit, come jogging right up when he tweets it once. Bless them. 

"What's the play, Coach Tom?" Ellie asks.

"Two and two, hold hands please," he says. "We'll follow the road until we find an emergency phone and then call for a breakdown service."

They form the line quickly, still looking at him with wide eyes.

"Now, I don't need to remind you that we're walking next to a dangerous road and so you need to be good now, right? I'll be walking at the very end."

"Coach Tom?" Danny sounds especially small. "Are we gonna be okay?"

Tom smiles down at them all and then puts a warm hand on Danny's shoulder. "Of course we are. Everything'll be just fine. There's no need to worry."

Unless it starts to rain. Then they'll probably all have colds.

He calls up the GPS on his mobile. They're somewhere in Devon, apparently, which means he... may have been driving the wrong direction all along. Well. This might be lucky, then. It doesn't start to rain within the first ten minutes, which he takes a sign that the Heavens don't hate him quite as much as the smoking van led him to think, but the kids are quiet and subdued, trudging along the street with their heads bowed.

"How about we sing something," he suggests.

Ellie starts singing Little Mix, swinging Danny's hand beside her, and slowly the rest join in. Tom grins to himself and joins as well, lest one of them turn around to ask him why he doesn't. They do like when he sings with them.

All the while as they walk, he scans around on his screen for anything helpful -- a petrol station, an emergency phone, even a shop that might let him use their landline. They make it through four or five renditions of "How Ya Doin'" before he sees a speck on his mobile screen: Barclay Wheels.

Finally.

It must mean they're getting closer to civilization, so service should be coming back soon enough as well.

"Hey, kiddos!" Tom says loudly enough to drown out Lillian's Perrie Edwards impression. "We need to turn left here and go down this road, and there's a shop that can help us."

"This isn't a road," Danny argues. "It's a cowpath."

"Alright," Tom says. "Then we need to go down this cowpath."

They look a little bit like they're not sure this cowpath is the best idea, but they're also young enough that they're not going to really put up a fight right now. They turn left, still in twos and holding hands even though they've left the road behind.

They walk for about five minutes, the kids relaxed enough to start chatting amidst themselves, before Patrick drops Johnny's hand and falls back.

"Coach Tom? I _really_ need to wee."

"Can't you hold it just a bit longer? We're nearly at the shop. I'm sure they'll let you use their toilets."

Patrick wiggles his hips side to side a bit and then shakes his head. Tom looks around. There aren't any trees or bushes nearby but they are relatively alone and, well, he's not about to force the poor boy to wet himself.

"Everybody, stop!" he calls. "Patrick needs a wee. Everybody turn around and give him some privacy please."

"Oh, me too!" Johnny says and comes shuffling over. Tom bites down on a sigh, hoping this isn't going to devolve into a literal pissing contest.

Tom waits, tapping his foot, while the girls giggle and the boys wee.

"All done?" he asks when the boys shuffle back into line. "Good. Let's get on then, yes?"

"Is it much farther?" Johnny asks. "I'm hungry."

"Well, you might yet be hungry at the shop," Tom admits. "But we'll get out the snacks as soon as we can, okay?"

They groan and grumble and Tom surreptitiously checks his pockets. Usually he keeps muesli bars or something on him, but he left them in the van, what with all the fiery, explosion-y panic.

"It shouldn't be that much further," he says. He'd been zoomed in pretty far on the GPS app.

The kids march along, but they've stopped singing. It's cold in the November wind, and their little noses and cheeks are bright red.

Finally, across one more pasture, just beyond a load of sheep, there it is: Barclay Wheels, a white lean-to building with a bright red, cheerful sign and a row of cars parked at the front. A few chickens wander around the pile of tires waiting for the incinerator. Tom's not really sure what it's doing out here, seemingly far away from... cars, and thus, business, but he'll not dwell on that right now.

"There it is!" he says excitedly, hoping to psyche up the kids a bit. They do cheer and make a run for it. "Careful of the sheep!" 

They don't listen, tearing across the meadow, and Tom mutters _and the sheep shit_ under his breath.

At least sheep are generally not very aggressive animals. He allows himself a sigh and then takes off at a jog after them.

The kids all stop short as soon as they reach the shop, though, and crowd around the door to wait for Tom. The dark shapes of men are visible through the screen door, and all of Tom's kids cuddle around him, bashful again.

He pats a few heads and shoulders and then knocks on and opens the door.

"Hello," he says, friendly smile in place. The kids peek out from behind his legs.

A pair of lovely, broad shoulders in a blue jumper turns around, and then there are big brown eyes blinking at him, massive hands being wiped clean of black grease on a flannel. "Hello, there. What can I do for you?"

There are _so_ many things he could do for Tom.

"Um," he says, hoping the chill outside masks the flush in his cheeks. "Our van broke down about twenty minutes from here. There's, er, smoke coming out from under the hood."

Oh, nice trim legs in dark jeans, too, as he steps out from behind the counter. "That's no good!" The man is tall and broad and yet so _pretty_ and then he kneels down to the level of the kids to stick out a hand towards Lillian. "I'm Barclay Beales and this is my shop, Barclay Wheels. You look hungry. D'you want some cocoa and biscuits?"

Lillian, along with the other five, turn to Tom with big eyes and questions of their faces. _Of course_ they want some cocoa and biscuits, but they've been told enough times not to just accept food from strangers.

"Go on," Tom says. He likes a man who prioritizes cocoa and biscuits over a smoking car.

Lillian blushes bright red as she shakes Barclay-Beales-of-Barclay-Wheels' massive hand. He just grins at her and then stands to whistle to the back room.

"Casey! Can you find that tin of chocolate bourbons and bring it to our guests while I take a look at their van?"

"Got it, boss," someone -- Casey, presumably -- calls back. Barclay Beales Wheels meanwhile reaches for a grey coat on a hook and turns to Tom.

"I'm going to need your keys. I assume you're not going to want to leave the kids and come with me?"

The kids, though, are all gathered around a young guy with a blond stripe in his hair and a smile as big as the tray of biscuits in his hands.

Barclay seems to follow the line of Tom's eyes, as he says, "It won't take long. If you've got smoke I'll most likely have to tow. Just there and back again, really."

Tom nods.

"Kids?" he calls and they all turn around to them, crumbs already stuck to their tiny lips. "I'm going to go get the van with Mr. Beales here. I need you all on your best behavior here with Casey. And if any of you need a wee, I'm sure he'll show you where the loo is."

Casey nods very seriously and gives Tom -- or maybe Barclay -- a little salute. Ellie is already hard at work French braiding the blond strip of hair, and he doesn't mind at all. It makes Tom trust him more than maybe he should.

"Alright then. The sooner we leave, the sooner we'll be back," Barclay Beales says and claps a hand on Tom's shoulder. Tom smiles at him and follows him outside.

"We'll take my truck out, if you need a tow. And if not, you can follow me back in your van." Barclay Beales points out with a thumb towards the white pick-up. He moves a few chickens out of the way with surprising gentleness.

Tom sort of wants to ask, but he's not sure how to phrase _why are there chickens all around your really out-of-the-way garage?_ without somehow insulting someone on the way.

"Thank you," he says instead and climbs into the cab when Barclay Beales holds the door open for him. "I was quite freaked out when the smoke suddenly started," he adds when Barclay Beales has joined him.

"I can imagine," Barclay Beales says, and he backs out smoothly before turning onto the cowpath. It's a bumpy ride, but he's a clean driver. "What color was the smoke, would you say? White, gray, black?"

"Gray? Ish? It got darker," Tom says and hopes that doesn't mean everything in the van's slowly melting and dying. "I mostly focused on getting the kids out, to be honest."

"That's smart. Are they -- they're not all _yours_ , are they?"

"God, no," Tom says. He loves coaching them and he does love kids and someday, yes, he wants some, but. _Someday._ "I'm their footie coach. We were on the way to a friendly."

Which reminds him that he should probably ring and tell them they wouldn't make it.

"That's cute," Barclay says. "If they don't get to play, they're welcome to use my lot for three-a-side. Four, maybe, because Casey will probably want to join in."

"Thanks," Tom smiles. "It'd be good to tire them out before I return them. I'm pretty sure that's why their parents send ‘em in the first place."

Barclay Beales laughs, and his eyes crinkle up, and his head lifts back, and it's a very good laugh. Tom feels a bit wibbly from it. He grins to himself and fidgets his fingers in his lap a bit, wondering if it's really bad form to be a bit glad that his van may be completely dead.

"I don't think I actually got your name," Barclay Beales says then, and Tom winces.

"Tom," he says. "Mann."

"Tom Mann, the footie coach," Barclay Beales says. "That's a good name. Where were you driving from when the smoke started? Had you just left?"

"We'd been on the road about a half hour. We were supposed to keep going another thirty minutes, but I think, er, I may have actually taken a wrong term somewhere. I don't think we're supposed to be around here," Tom says. Of course he'd meet a gorgeous man when everything about the situation makes him look as incompetent as possible.

"It's dead confusing out this way," Barclay agrees. "I get lost sometimes and I've lived here m'whole life."

Tom squints at him. "Are you just saying that to make me feel better about almost setting a bunch of kids on fire or getting them lost in the middle of nowhere?"

Barclay's eyebrows are very expressive as he says _no, no, of course not_.

He's a shit liar, but a nice person. And beautiful.

Tom wants to hit him in the face a bit. Gently. With his lips.

"It shouldn't be much further," he says, to change the topic, scanning the opposite side of the road for their abandoned van. ... Had he ever actually locked it before they left? He can't remember.

Well, no one would be stupid enough to burgle a burning van, would they? Unless a sheep got in somehow. That would be the end-all.

"Ah, yes," Barclay Beales says as they're approaching the van. It's still smoking, a bit, which can't be good, but it's far less now.

He parks a safe distance away and hops out of the truck. It takes Tom a little bit more of a jump to get out, but he's grateful that Barclay couldn't possibly notice as he unloaded towing cables from the back bed.

"So this is almost definitely a towing situation. I'm just going to make sure it's safe to tow first, alright?" Barclay says. "Stay back."

Tom does as he's told. A sheep lumbers over to watch with him as Barclay Beales approaches the smoking van and climbs into the driver's seat. Tom blushes again as Barclay winces behind the windshield and moves the seat much, much further back to accommodate his long legs as he looks for the hood release.

That... could be why Tom hadn't been able to open it before. He's definitely not mentioning that.

The sheep bleats like it can read his thoughts.

"I was stressing, alright?" Tom mutters and then watches the hood pop open just a tiny bit and a big gust of smoke come billowing out while Barclay Beales climbs back out of the van. He pulls his jumper up over his nose and waves his hands about to try and dispel the smoke.

He dons a pair of heavy gloves and lifts the hood the rest of the way.

There's more smoke, but then it clears and Tom watches Barclay prod some things and nod to himself. It'd probably be safe to walk over there and watch now, but what would Tom even do besides be impressed with the way Barclay's coat lined his shoulders?

Barclay stands and waves for Tom to come over, though, so he does.

"I'm going to need to tow this back to the shop, and you might be stuck for a while yet. Mobile service out here barely exists, so you can use my landline back at the shop to call your kids' parents and let them know what's happened. I should have all the parts I need, but if I don't, you may be -- well, you can sleep on my sofa if you want."

Tom's eyes bug out of his head a bit.

"I'm not sure me and the kids will all fit," he says automatically, with a slightly weak smile. Barclay smiles back dutifully. He really is a very nice person; that wasn't even funny. Then again, someone whose name is Barclay Beales and seriously names their shop Barclay Wheels might just find that funny enough for a genuine smile.

"Thank you, um," Tom says, "I'll have the kids picked up, then. No need for them to wait around."

"Let them play a little footie first to work off the sugar Casey's pumped them full of," Barclay agrees, nodding. "Their parents can cheer them on when they arrive to get them."

"They'll all crash from the sugar highs as soon as they hit the road again, probably," Tom says with a grin. It happens after pretty much every away game they have. There's only so much excitement such tiny bodies can handle, after all.

Barclay Beales grins again. "I was always shit at footie. But I didn't have a good coach like you."

Tom smiles involuntarily. He's not so good with being complimented. "You've not even seen me in action. I could be rubbish for all you know."

Barclay gives Tom the honest-to-goodness up-and-down. "Nah. You look well fit. Fitness! Fit like fitness."

Tom very nearly does an 'I work ooouuut' impression from that LMFAO song, but grins instead.

"You're not so bad yourself," he says, leaving it deliberately open, even while his heart's beating away in his throat.

Barclay Beales face' goes a little soft, and then his big hands are coiling cable and his biceps are bulging under his jumper as he hooks something into the front of Tom's dead van and it's all very impressive.

Tom feels much warmer now than he did last time he was stood on this stretch of road.

"Well, that's it then," Barclay Beales says as he tests the cables and gently closes the hood of the car again. "Let's head back before it turns dark."

Tom can only nod dumbly and trot after him, climbing back into the pickup's passenger seat.

It's slower going with a whole van behind them, especially because the sheep and cows seem especially curious about this odd metal monster, but the interior of the truck's cab is full of warm, tentative anticipation. Barclay asks Tom how he fell into coaching, and Tom asks whether Barclay really meant to name his shop _Barclay Wheels_.

"Of course I did," Barclay Beales says. "Such comedic genius doesn't happen just by accident, although most of my business does."

Tom blinks a bit stupidly at his charming grin. He'd be a liar if he claimed he didn't appreciate a good (or bad) pun himself anyway.

"D'you know," he tries carefully, "I knew something was wrong with that van when I got in this morning, 'cause I couldn't figure out how to do up my seatbelt. But then it clicked."

There's a beat of silence and then Barclay Beales laughs. A loud, open, genuine laugh that lights Tom up and makes him grin.

"What's the difference between an instrument and a fish?" Barclay asks in return.

Tom knows this one, but does he reveal that or let Barclay get his moment?

"I don't know. What?" he asks, turning his head and watching the sparkle in Barclay's eyes.

"You can't tune a fish," Barclay says, and when Tom laughs, he looks utterly... delighted. "Casey never laughs at my jokes."

"Not everyone can appreciate such highbrow humor, Beales," Tom says. He knows the plight. Tom's puns are routinely ignored as well. Or eyes roll at them, which is even worse. The only people who seem to appreciate them always are his team. Since their age is not even in double digits yet, Tom thinks that probably doesn't count.

"Eyebrow humor?" Barclay asks. "I didn't think they were _that_ bad. I took a razor to the monobrow this morning and all."

Tom barks an involuntary laugh at that. The idea of a monobrow on a face like Barclay's is just... well. Laughable. So what if that's a bit shallow.

"Don't worry, you can barely see it," he teases.

"I'm glad," Barclay says very seriously. "I just woke up this morning with a strange feeling that I should look m'best. And lo, there came a footie coach staggering into my humble shop."

Tom ducks his head and smiles.

"I was only staggering because there were children attached to my legs. I can move quite well, I'll have you know," he says and then abruptly stops when he realizes what that sounds like.

Barclay's voice is low and caramelized when he answers after a beat. "I'll bet you can."

Tom swallows against the urge to clear his throat and balls a hand hidden beside his thigh into a fist so he doesn't fidget. "All part of the job.”

"Yeah," Barclay says knowingly. "It's like mine. Gotta be good with my hands."

"Hmm," Tom hums agreeably. "Probably lots of sensitive fiddly bits in an engine."

"I am good at fiddling with bits," Barclay says, nodding --

And then they both break down in laughter.

"Too obvious by half, mate!" Tom gasps. "That was terrible!"

"It wasn't my best," Barclay concedes, grin still big on his face. The going on the cow path is even slower now that they're almost back at his shop, courtesy of the chickens Barclay is trying not to run over.

"It's alright." Tom chances patting Barclay Beales' knee, and his leg is warm and sturdy under Tom's hand. "Got the point across."

"Mission accomplished then," Barclay says, smile a little more warm than amused now. He doesn't say anything about Tom's hand on his leg so Tom thinks he could probably leave it there. If only he didn't have to lean over the center console so awkwardly to do it.

When he takes his hand back, Barclay looks over at him with a sort of softly sad understanding. 

As soon as the shop is in view again, the sounds of Tom's little team shouting and squealing float in through the windows of the truck cab.

"Well," Tom says, feeling just a tad panicked. "In case they broke anything, I sincerely apologize."

Barclay laughs again. "Casey not exactly hazard-free either. I'm sure it's alright."

Once they get close enough to see, though, everything is alright: idyllic, actually, as the kids chase chickens in equal measure as the football, and Casey chases after _them_ , sometimes swooping one up into the air or onto his shoulders for a dramatic victory lap over nothing.

Tom feels his face soften out into that smile that's probably the reason he does this; grey hairs and occasional migraine be damned. There's nothing quite like watching a bunch of kids run around and be happy.

"Coach Tom!" Lillian yells when he steps out of the car and runs over to him to tug at his coat and start filling him in on what he missed. "I had _six_ marshmallows in my cocoa!" 

"Six?" he gasps dutifully.

"I had only three!" Danny boasts, because Tom always tells them not to eat too much sugar.

"Casey says it's alright to have six," Lillian insists.

Tom swings her up onto his hip. "Does he, now? Let's see your teeth."

Lillian grins at him with all of her teeth, and Tom nods very seriously. "Well, I guess they're all still there."

"I'll get new ones anyway," Lillian says. "From the tooth fairy."

"Ah, yes, of course," Tom says. "But only once for every tooth."

Lillian nods and snuggles down against Tom's shoulder. "I will not have six marshmallows once I got grown-up teeth."

Clever girl, capitalizing on her milk teeth. "That's good." 

"Well, _I've_ already got an adult tooth," Danny says. Lillian glares down at him.

Tom just sighs dramatically and ruffles Danny's hair. "You're lucky it's only one. I got _thirty-two_ adult teeth. So I can't have any marshmallows."

Danny and Lillian stare at him with wide eyes.

"Never?" Lillian whispers, horrified.

Tom shakes his head sadly. "Almost never."

"I don't even like marshmallows," Barclay says from where he's stepped up next to them, earning himself even more horrified expressions.

"Why?" Danny asks, completely bewildered.

"Well." Barclay looks thoughtful. "I have a pet bunny, and he's fluffy and white. So when I eat marshmallows, I get nervous."

Lillian nods like it makes sense. "I don't have a bunny.”

"Would you like to see him?" Barclay asks. "His name's Kipling."

Tom can't help himself snorting. Lillian ignores it in favor of wiggling excitedly so Tom will set her back down.

"Yes! Please!"

"Can I see him too, please?" Danny says.

"Sure." Barclay lets them take his hands and leads them around the side of the shop to where most of the chickens seem to keep appearing from.

"We're looking at a bunny!" Lillian yells across the space to Ellie and Tina, presumably, but all other four kids snap their heads up and come running, Casey still chasing after them almost just as excitedly. The chickens squawk in protest but then seem glad they're not being chased around anymore.

Tom shakes his head and laughs when Casey slows to a stop and mutters, half to the sky and half to himself, "Wait, I've seen the bunny. I fed it this morning." He grins over at Tom and then jogs to his side. "So what's wrong with your van, mate? I see it's not smoking anymore."

"No idea, to be honest," Tom says.

"I'll take a look while Barcs shows off the ugly bunny." Casey claps Tom's shoulder. "The kids all rang their parents while you were out. They're on their way to relieve you."

"Oh, thank you," Tom says and means the van as much as the calling-the-parents. The first one's Casey's job but the latter's just good thinking and... nice. "Thanks for looking after them, too.”

"It was a pleasure," Casey assures him. "Might surprise you, but meeting new people is a rarity around here."

"In such a bustling, lively city? I'd assumed you met all sorts of folk all the time!" Tom says, widening his eyes before he can think better of it and maybe not insult the place where Casey works.

Casey shakes his head. "I would've left ages ago if it weren't for Barcs. He's worth staying for."

It probably means more than the mere words, with the way Casey is looking at Tom.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to..." Tom says and trails off. He's not quite sure how to proceed.

"Don't be sorry," Casey says. "Just keep it in mind."

"Alright," Tom says. It seems like the thing to say, even if he feels mostly awkward now, something strange squirming in his belly and his veins.

This place is nowhere, after all. Literally a wrong turn on the map.

"That's alright then," Casey says with a grin and slaps him on the back, moving away to the van and leaving Tom to his whirling thoughts.

He wanders off to the side of the house to where his kids are sitting calm-as-you-please in a little circle as the ugliest rabbit he's ever seen darts around from child to child, sniffing at their fingers and hopping into one lap and then the next.

It is white, he supposes, underneath the dried leaves and occasional fleck of dirt sticking to his fur. It's not scarred or deformed, exactly, it's just... there's something off about it. Like it was made by a terrible taxidermist. 

Its face is cute enough, he supposes, it's just not the sweet pet-store bunnies he's used to. 

"Don't mind his appearance," Barclay says, as if through telepathy. "I rescued him from a fox a few months ago."

"Oh," Tom says and goes a bit swoony. "That's very nice of you."

Barclay looks pleased, and then he scoops up the entire rabbit with one hand before it can escape the circle of entranced children.

The kids follow it with their eyes like kittens a laser pointer. Tom thinks they could make one of those videos for youtube; lift the bunny around off camera and make the kids move their heads in time to some cutesy pop song. 

"Say thank you," Tom tells them while Barclay puts the bunny back inside its hutch.

All six kids cling onto Barclay's legs as they chorus, "Thank you, Mr. Beales-Wheels!"

It's almost unbearably adorable.

Barclay chuckles and turns to grin at them. "Absolutely no trouble. But now I've got to go look at your van so Coach Tom can drive you to the next game, yeah?"

"I don't even wanna play footie anymore," Ellie says thoughtfully. "This was a more funner day."

"So you don't want to play a three-a-side while we wait for your parents then?" Tom asks.

There's a little flurry of discussion before they agree that yes, they'll play, but they want some water first and a wee and then they're curious about all the tyres and by the time they're ready to begin, Ellie's parents have arrived.

"Mummy!" Ellie yells and runs over to her, chattering about her day. Tom follows a bit more leisurely.

"I'm very sorry for the trouble, Mrs. Keating," he says, sheepish smile in place.

"Not at all, dear." She busses Tom's cheek. "I'm just glad you got them somewhere safe. That was good thinking, from what Ellie told me on the phone."

"A healthy dose of good luck as well," he says. He's not sure what he'd've done if they hadn't literally stumbled across Beales Wheels. Or if the weather had broken and the downpour that's been hanging heavy in the clouds had actually fallen.

Mrs. Keating smiles at him.

"We're taking Tina back as well; her mum rang and asked."

Tom nods and calls Tina over. She insists on a big, swingy hug before she'll leave him. He indulges her and swings her around and then helps her climb into Mrs. Keating's car before going to fetch both Ellie and Tina's bags from the boot of the van.

He can hear Casey and Barclay's muffled voices from underneath the frame as they work on something or another, and he hides his smile in the crook of his shoulder before taking the little backpacks to the car.

"Thanks, love," Mrs. Keating says and then hurries to the driver's side. "I've got to run, got to get these home and get started on dinner."

"Of course. See you next week," Tom says.

After that, it doesn't take long for the other parents to turn up and get the kids: Danny, then Johnny, then Lillian and Patrick. By the time evening's fallen and the sky is dark and still woolly with clouds, only Tom, Casey, Barclay Beales, and the mass of chickens and sheep are left.

Tom's feeling a bit... stuck. The polite thing to do would probably be to ring a taxi and get a lift into the closest town and find a room for the night. Or maybe ask Casey for a lift when he leaves, but Barclay has offered his couch and with the way their conversation had been going earlier Tom rather hopes to update that offer to a bed.

But what is he supposed to do until then?

He wanders over to the side of the shop again and lets Kipling the Ugly Bunny nibble at his fingertips for a minute. This is a nice place. There's nothing around for miles, but it doesn't feel lonely. The wide open space is calm and strangely welcoming.

"What do you think I should do, Kipling?" Tom asks the bunny, petting its head. "Any suggestions?"

The bunny flops over onto its side, totally content. 

"Alright," Tom agrees. "I'll stay."

A chicken comes over to them, clucking and moving its head and in that slightly creepy way that chickens do. It tilts its head and looks at Tom. Tom tilts his head and looks back.

The chicken turns tail and clucks its way across the shop yard again right to the van.

"Ouch!"

It pecks at Barclay's ankle where it sticks out from beneath the van. The force of Tom’s sudden laughter makes him lose his balance and he finds himself sitting in the dirt, laughing. 

Today is a very strange day.

He stays there, sitting in the dust, until Barclay slides out from under the van.

"Well," he says, hands black, "The good news is that it isn't totaled."

"That's not very reassuring," Tom says. "It sounds like it's 'really very close to totaled.'"

Barclay's expressive eyebrows beat his mouth to the apology. "No, no, it's not... it's really not _that_ bad.”

"But you're going to have to order some parts.”

"Quite a lot of parts," Barclay agrees. "Almost all of the parts."

"Enough parts that getting a new one would be cheaper?" 

Barclay grins. "Not that many parts, no."

Tom sighs and scrubs his hands through his hair. "Well, I guess that's something."

"Sorry, mate," Barclay says. "I can't tell you yet what exactly caused it, but I don't think it's anything you did."

"I hope not," Tom says. "All I did was drive it as normal."

"And you got it checked regularly and such, I assume?" Barclay says in that tone of voice that most mechanics have when talking to people who don't know much about cars and maybe don't always see the point in paying someone to tell him his car's working fine when, yeah, he assumed, since it's, you know, _working fine_.

"Absolutely," Tom says.

Barclay raises an eyebrow.

"At least... almost as often as you're meant to," Tom insists.

"Well," Barclay says diplomatically, "Like I said, I don't know what happened exactly yet."

"How long will it take to get in all the parts?"

It's Barclay's turn to scrub a hand through his hair this time, and to his credit, he looks genuinely sorry. "Maybe a day? I can get it fixed right quickly once they're all here, though."

"That's alright. I thought you were going to say three weeks or six months," Tom says, feeling relieved. His eyes flit to the side and then back to Barclay. "I don't suppose I can take you up on that offer of your couch for tonight? I'll be out of your hair tomorrow, of course.”

"Yeah, of course. Don't even have to -- well, you probably have commitments and things." Barclay busies himself with cleaning his hands on a rag.

"Nothing immediate," Tom says. Nothing until tomorrow afternoon, at least.

Barclay looks over to Tom and there's a warm fizzle between them. "Well, you're welcome to stay as long as you need. Or like. Whatever."

"Maybe one night'll change your mind and you won't want to have me anymore." 

"I'm not usually that type." 

Barclay licks his lip. Tom watches his tongue, swallows and wonders what that means. Is he the type to _be had_? Or is he the type who cooks breakfast and asks for dinner?

Barclay straightens up and throws the grease rag into a bin. "I just mean, like -- I'm not gonna kick you out after just one night. If you don't want."

"Ask me again tomorrow," Tom says, with a teasing quirk to his mouth. He's not... opposed, exactly, but he can't. God. He can't really think of anything like _commitment_ either. But maybe they can get there.

Barclay leans down to the van and tugs at Casey's ankle where it's still sticking out from the frame of the van. "You alive down there, Cay? You want a pizza?"

Casey wheels himself out. "Are you two done with the mating rituals then? I've been waiting."

"Adults call it flirting," Tom says primly, deciding to power through the light burn of embarrassment in his cheeks and chest.

"Which is why for you two it's a mating ritual," Casey snorts. He stands up and rubs down his hands and face with a clean rag. "And I can sort my own pudd, thanks, Barcs. I had enough marshmallows earlier to tide me over for a week."

"Alright, alright," Barclay says good-naturedly. "See you tomorrow them?"

"Bright 'n early, boss," Casey says and mock-salutes. "Have a nice night."

Barclay goes a little pink, and Tom is endeared. He wonders, though, how common this is -- does Barclay offer his sofa to every semi-attractive man whose car breaks down en route to nowhere?

He supposes it shouldn't matter. Barclay hasn't offered more than a couch or a shag, but everyone likes feeling special.

And he really only alluded to the shag. Tom might be getting overly hopeful.

"You too," Tom says, while Barclay slaps Casey's butt as he passes. Casey only laughs at it.

And then they're really alone, except for the sheep and chickens.

"So," Tom says softly.

"So," Barclay agrees. "I, er, just live upstairs. It seemed easier. And sometimes people need a tow off-hours."

"Sure, sure," Tom says. He's not exactly living the high life back home either, what with coaching under-tens and playing guitar in pubs and coffee houses on occasional weekends.

Barclay locks up the doors to the shop itself and turns a sign around to read 'CLOSED.' It's all very final. Tom's really staying here. And his van really is well and truly fucked.

Really, at this point, Tom's only hoping that either he or Barclay will end up equally fucked. Maybe that'd turn the day around. Meanwhile, he sighs deeply and runs a hand through his hair.

Barclay coughs and opens a door behind the service counter. "It's just -- up these stairs. It's not much, but I do like it. It's got enough."

Tom doesn't know what to say, feels his leg jitter like if he were sat down he'd bounce his knee up and down, so he smiles and just walks past Barclay and up the stairs.

It's _not_ much, but it has an immediately homey feeling to it. Cozy. Open.

There aren't animals running around up here, which is a bit of a surprise given outdoors, but Tom can't say he isn't grateful. He’d imagined Barclay the type to have a massive St. Bernard dog nosing around in his flat, though, and it’s a little sad that there are no more little friends to meet.

"So," Barclay asks from behind him, making Tom's heart jump and skip a beat. "What'll you have on your pizza?"

"I'm not fussy," Tom says. "All pizza's pretty good pizza, when you're in the mood for pizza. It's like sex that way."

"But there are still things you're never in the mood for, be it on pizza or with sex," Barclay says. "Like anchovies.”

"Fuck anchovies," Tom agrees.

"I'd rather not," Barclay says. "If it's all the same to you. They're just so oily."

"You don't like it slick?"

"Well, you know what they say," Barclay says. "Smells like trout, get the fuck out."

Tom bursts into laughter. "I'm pretty sure no one's ever said that."

"I know I heard it back in sixth form," Barclay insists, his grin coming out in full force. "Masters of sex, are sixth-formers."

"Absolutely," Tom says, voice heavy with sarcasm.

Barclay is quiet, and there's a minute of hedging silence before he says, "Oh! Should I -- let me take your coat."

"Thank you," Tom says. He means for it to come out flirty, but it just sounds honest while the coat slides down his arms.

Barclay hangs it over the back of a chair because there isn't much elsewhere in this little flat. There's a kitchen table with four small chairs set up like sometimes Barclay has people over to play cards, and a stove with a scratched-up frying pan just waiting for eggs in the morning. A refrigerator with a chesty cough.

"Bathroom's through there and to the right," Barclay says, which probably means that 'through there and on the _left_ ' is his bedroom.

Tom nods. "Cool. Erm, yeah, so whatever you like on a pizza's good with me. I'm pretty flexible."

"I can respect a willingness to try new things. Mushrooms good?" Barclay says, undeterred.

"Yeah, sure. Can I -- ?" He gestures towards the squashy green sofa that takes up most of the space that Barclay seems to have declared the living room. It’s not so much a different room from the kitchen as that the décor, as it were, seems more living room-ish. Besides the green sofa, there’s a brown ottoman and a few empty milk crates that look to serve as side-tables, and another crate for the television to rest on. There’s a respectable amount of video gaming equipment near it on the floor, a bag of rabbit feed propped against one wall, and an old tower of CDs that doesn’t seem to have been updated since the mid-noughties. Tom can relate. Who actually pays for music in this day and age?

"Sure," Barclay says. "Get yourself comfortable."

Tom sits down -- the give of the sofa is that heavenly lived-in-but-not-quicksand feel -- and Barclay fishes out his mobile phone, calling a pizza delivery he's obviously got saved in his contacts.

He jumps over the back of the sofa and lands right beside tom with a cheeky smile. "On its way. They're usually a while since they're a bit far from here. If the pizza’s cold when it arrives, though, it’s free. I get a lot of free pizza come winter."

"I feel like maybe everything's a bit far away," Tom says, but ducks his head and turns his body a bit, so he's angling more towards Barclay.

Barclay nods. "Yeah. I guess it's a bit isolated out here, but I don't mind it anymore. It's exciting to meet someone new, though. Not that I don't love Casey's company."

"Hmm. He seems lovely. Cheeky," Tom says and wonders if it'd be too forward to put his hand on Barclay's leg.

"He is that," Barclay just moves a little closer when Tom's palm curves over the top of his knee. "He'll flirt with just about anything that moves, save the sheep and chickens. And Kipling."

"That's probably good for Kipling," Tom agrees, laughing. "Sounds like he's been traumatized enough with that fox."

Barclay makes a wounded face and nods gravely. "Was scared for weeks, poor thing. Took quite a while until he'd let me pick him up."

Unlike Tom, who took all of a few hours. "Well, he seems to have settled in now." 

"He has a nice place to live," Barclay agrees. "'S'all it really takes."

His hands are big and warm where they fit over Tom's legs.

"And good company," Tom says, letting his body follow the sag in the sofa and lean closer to Barclay.

Barclay nods only enough for the light to shift in his eyes. "It's a good plus."

"Very good," Tom agrees. "You said the pizza'll be a while, right? Any suggestions on how to pass the time?"

He looks up through his lashes and hopes it's enough of a suggestion. Barclay's shoulders are so broad when he's this close, and he's wearing a jumper that looks cuddlier than anyone with biceps like this ought to be. He takes a deep breath and leans a bit closer to Tom -- almost close enough to kiss, but not quite. He's leaving the option open, hedging.

Almost like he's nervous.

Maybe he doesn't take in every stranger.

From all the way out this far from anywhere else, maybe... maybe he's more like Kipling in this situation than Tom is. Tom doesn’t want to be the fox. 

Instead, he smiles and brings a hand up, fits it to the line of Barclay's jaw and strokes his thumb over the stubble coming in on his cheek. Allows himself a moment to just take in the gentle warmth and that this is definitely going to happen.

Then he leans in the last bit of the way and lets his lips settle over Barclay's.

The stubble around Barclay's mouth is rough, but his lips are soft. When Tom pulls back, Barclay's breath shakes like he can't quite believe it really happened.

"That's a passably good idea," Tom murmurs, keeping his eyes closed and turning, getting one leg underneath him so he can face Barclay on the couch. Barclay smells like crisp clean air and motor oil or whatever else makes that ‘garage’ smell.

Barclay nods a little but pulls back all the same. "If it wasn't -- I didn't mean you had to, like... I'll fix your van either way, obviously."

The idea hadn't even crossed Tom's mind and the laughter the comment startles out of him honestly sounds a bit scandalized.

"I should hope so, Barclay Wheels."

Barclay ducks his head and what Tom can still see of his cheeks are flaming red. "Sorry, I just... got nervous."

"'S’alright, love," Tom says, moving his hand from Barclay's face further back to scritch through his short hair. "Want to carry on?"

"Yeah. Yes. Do you?"

"Very much. Was that not obvious?"

Barclay still looks a little nervous. "It's just... pretty isolated out here. I'm not great shakes at being able to tell."

"Well. Then. Barclay Beales, I would very much like to snog you on this sofa until our pizza gets here. And after too, probably," Tom says.

Barclay's answering grin is sunshine. It takes a minute for his lips to close enough that Tom can kiss them again.

Tom gets a bit lost in the slip and slide of their lips then. Barclay had said the pizza would be a while and even though he kind of wants this night to end up with both of them in Barclay's bed, he thinks it'd be alright if they just went to sleep there. He's not trying to make this go anywhere, really, so he just gets comfortable and enjoys the languid way Barclay's lips drag over his own.

There's a tiny, tentative touch of tongue and then Barclay's big hands fit around Tom's hips to lift him into Barclay's lap. His arms are so solid and strong where they wind around Tom's waist to hold him there.

Tom hums pleasantly in his throat, thinks he'd probably purr if he could and lets his arms rest on Barclay's shoulders, occasionally raising his hands to let his fingers card through the hair at the base of Barclay's skull and opens his mouth to Barclay.

It's a good kiss, and it's been a while since he's had a good kiss. Strange to think that this morning his plan for tonight had been to take a paracetamol for his inevitable headache after the kids' match and maybe drink a beer while watching television.

This is better.

Barclay tightens his arms and pulls him a little closer. Nothing too suggestive, but their chests line up and Tom spreads his legs wider so his knees don't dig painfully into the backrest. Barclay scoots down a bit to make it easier and it makes Tom taller than Barclay. It changes the angle of their kiss, makes it deeper somehow.

This is so much better.

Barclay's hands spread over Tom's back, and Tom leans some of his weight down against the bulk of Barclay's chest. He's just so solid.

He rolls his shoulders against the shiver that the touch of Barclay's hands chase down his spine and makes a soft sort of sound into Barclay's mouth. He's getting a bit warm.

He has to pull back to get another breath, and Barclay's mouth drags over Tom's throat in a single soft-sucking kiss over his Adam's apple.

"Oh, that's... that's very nice," Tom says, in a sort of hushed whisper, and lets his hands come up to cradle the back of Barclay's head.

The shape of Barclay's mouth against his skin shifts into a smile. Tom pulls at the short hair between his fingers a bit, but smiles up at the ceiling himself.

It's warm and gearing towards hot, but this doesn't feel like the kind of hookup that will leave him with torn clothes or missing socks abandoned behind a radiator where they were thrown in haste.

It's smoother than that.

They're not even a little bit tipsy, for one, which isn't a rule for Tom's hookups or anything, but does tend to happen. And they're taking their time, for another. Barclay's hands are still warm on his back and his running them up and down along his spine, but it's more to touch than to get underneath Tom's jumper, he thinks.

The way he's dragging his mouth along Tom's neck and down to the edge of his t-shirt, letting his tongue dip just under the material to measure out Tom's collarbone -- Tom's breath is starting to come faster, shallower.

Tom wants to go there, definitely; wants to get his clothes off and let Barclay put his clever mouth anywhere he wants, but he can also feel the tiny twinge in his stomach that means he's getting hungry and maybe... just until they've eaten, it might be better to keep their clothes on.

He's about to say something when _Barclay's_ stomach grumbles so loudly that they both have to fall backwards and laugh.

"Hungry?" Tom asks, grinning cheekily but still perched in Barclay's lap. He sees no reason to move.

"Just a bit," Barclay sounds sheepish. "Sorry. That sort of puts a damper on things, doesn't it?"

"Nah," Tom says. "Bit peckish myself. We've got all night, haven't we?"

Barclay's eyes actually sparkle when he nods this time. "Yeah. I suppose we have. Seeing as you can't drive anywhere. Not in that van."

"Could steal your pick up," Tom says, more to be contrary than anything else. He hasn't really considered that he really can't leave even if he wanted to, and a tiny part of his brain maybe feels better for having seen Barclay set down the keys earlier.

"I'd let you take it," Barclay agrees. "If you really wanted."

"That's very gallant of you."

"That's me." Barclay's chest puffs out. "Prince Charming."

"You did swoop in and save me and all," Tom says.

"Yes, in my pumpkin coach," Barclay agrees. There's a buzz from the doorbell, and Barclay lifts Tom easy-as-you-please to go get the pizza. If he has to adjust his trousers first, then maybe Tom feels a bit proud.

"So what will you turn into at midnight?" Tom pushes things around on the little table by the sofa so that Barclay can set the box of pizza down.

"As far as I know, I remain charming as ever, and it’s just the coach that turns into a pumpkin." Barclay winks when he says ‘coach,’ and it takes Tom a minute before he squawks. 

He shakes his head and winces as hot sauce and cheese burn his tongue. From the face Barclay's making, at least he's not the only one, although he does hope that this shared injury doesn't have an impact on the rest of the night.

He was rather liking Barclay's tongue.

He supposes he could always suggest kissing it better, but for the moment he watches Barclay hastily chew through the first bite and set his slice of pizza back down.

"Something to drink?" he offers.

"What you got?" 

Barclay wipes his hands on the sides of his jeans and heads over to the refrigerator. It whines like an old man when he opens the door. "Lager, Coke, Ribena. Got milk and Ovaltine if you really fancy."

Tom laughs. "Maybe before bed. Lager's fine, thanks."

Barclay grabs two of them and a Ribena and comes back over. He doesn't exactly whine like an old man when he sits back down, but there is a deeply exhausted sigh that he heaves.

"Y'alright?" Tom asks. Barclay opens both bottles on the edge of the coffee table.

"Yeah, yeah. All good. Just nice to sit down after a day of screwing around in cars."

Tom snorts at the wording. He can't help it. Sounds like his adolescence.

Barclay winks and hands over one of the beer bottles before taking an impressively long pull from his own. Tom watches his throat work around the liquid as Barclay swallows, resisting the urge to press the cold bottle against his flushed cheek.

Christ, maybe he should've gone for the Ribena if he's already like this.

Barclay takes up a slice of pizza and leans back, relaxed and warm. "So, how'd you get to be a football coach? Were you a star at uni or something?"

Tom does a little shrug and tries to temper his smile.

"Nah, not really. I mean, I'm decent. Good enough for the under-tens, but if I'd been a star at uni I'd be playing myself, yeah?”

Barclay shrugs. "Not everyone gets that kinda chance. I thought maybe you'd had an injury."

"No, just more like... never proper went for it, I suppose. Did the PE teaching course at uni and it sort of just came together like that," Tom says. He's not really all that bothered, if he's honest. He doubts he'd've ever made it into the premier league at any rate. He’s really awfully short.

Barclay smiles at Tom, and it makes Tom's heart flip a little. "Well, they seem to really love you, so it was probably the right choice."

"I do enjoy it. Despite the occasional migraine," Tom says. "What about you?" He looks over at Barclay and then goes back to his pizza.

Barclay shifts and one shoulder rises as he busies himself with rearranging the mushrooms on his slice of pizza. "'S'alright, yeah. Small business owner. Country's bread and butter, and all that."

Tom chews his mouth full, considering. He's not sure if Barclay's mushroom-rearranging is a deflection and he's uncomfortable, but then again he's the one who'd brought their jobs up. Surely he'd know Tom would be curious?

"Well, you seem to have a nice little set-up."

Barclay nods again. "It's not bad. The roads out here are mental, lots of flat tires and towing, really. I'm never bored."

"And occasionally there are bunnies to rescue from foxes," Tom says with a smile.

"That there are." Barclay's smile this time feels more real. "And the chickens and sheep. And Casey." He turns to face Tom again. "And sometimes, there are fit footie coaches and adorable children to save from exploding vans."

Tom chuckles and ducks his head. 

"It wouldn't have exploded," he says and then pauses, smile slipping a bit. "Right?"

"Probably not. It's best that you noticed when you did."

"I, er, actually didn't. The kids did in a game of 'I Spy.'"

Barclay lets out a bark of laughter. "How do you miss smoke rising from your hood?" 

"I was concentrating on the road!" 

Barclay shakes his head, kisses Tom's cheek. "You're a bit ridiculous, aren't you?"

Tom makes a whiny little noise, but, yes, he supposes. He _is_ a little ridiculous. "No one got hurt, that's the important thing.”

"Everything happens for a reason." Barclay's voice is sage, but Tom can still tell that he's taking the piss.

He resists the urge to poke out his tongue and instead stuffs his mouth with more pizza than is probably considered advisable. Or attractive.

Barclay snorts a laugh into his fist, and they both busy themselves with pizza and beer for a few too-short minutes until the whole pie is gone.

"Oh! How much do I owe you?" Tom says, suddenly realizing he'd ever even offered to pay for his half.

"Don't worry about it," Barclay says. "The van's gonna set you back enough that I feel bad taking any more of your money, if I'm honest."

That... does not sound good. Tom had sort of been suspecting it, because this always happens when you have to order in parts, but it's not really properly sunk in yet. He keeps forgetting that he's here because his van broke down and he's quite literally stuck.

"Alright then," Tom says. "Thank you."

Barclay looks genuinely apologetic when he says, "Sorry, mate. I think maybe a bird or a rat or something got in your engine. It's fucked."

Tom sighs. "Well, at least it's not my semi-regular trips to the mechanic then. Though I suppose now I've an incentive to come more often."

A tiny light comes on in Barclay's big, dark eyes. "Bit counterintuitive to drive so far just to get care for your car, isn't it?"

"But no other mechanic has rescued me and my kids. Or a bunny from a fox. Or offered me a place for then night.”

"Well, that's good!" Barclay laughs again. "At least this isn't just your usual pulling technique. 'Oh no, me and my loads of adoring, adorable children have nearly blown up, save us!'"

Tom laughs. "Nah, usually I just put on my footie shorts and jump up and down on the sidelines of a game. There are always a few older brothers or single parents around."

Barclay's still smiling, but the corners of his eyes look a little tight. "So this is common for you, though? Pulling -- guys?"

"Are you asking me if I'm a slag or if I've had a guy before?" Tom asks, brow furrowed a little.

"I don't think you're a slag!"

"Well, I don't know what you mean by 'common'!" Tom says. "I do pull guys sometimes but I don't have a rotating door installed to my bedroom."

"I just meant -- like. It's pretty isolated out here," Barclay hedges. "Bit, you know. Hard to meet people who aren't like... traditional. And all."

"Yeah. Okay," Tom says. "Well, it's not quite as... _traditional_ in the big bad city. So I'm guessing it's not -- common. For you?"

Barclay's face goes a little pink behind his dark stubble, and Tom touches his cheek lightly when Barclay shakes his head.

"Like... never?" he asks, making his voice more gentle. It's not like that'd stop him. If Barclay says he wants this, he'll afford him the courtesy of believing him. But it does make things a little different, of course.

Barclay doesn't move away from Tom or shrug off the gentle hand Tom still has pressed to Barclay's cheek, but his eyes look anywhere but Tom's face as he says, "Not... so far as all this."

Tom strokes his thumb over Barclay's cheekbone just once and hums agreeably.

"Well. Just tell me if anything's too much or something. Or you want to do something different or..." He breaks off then and licks his lips. "What _do_ you want from this, actually?"

Barclay's tongue is so red when it darts out to lick his lips, Barclay's eyes back to roving over Tom's face. Down over his neck, his chest. They're so hot that Tom can almost feel their path. He's hoping Barclay'll let him underneath his clothes and get very well acquainted with his dick, but to be honest, he enjoyed their snogging so much, if it's nothing more than that he'll be totally fine with it.

It's been a while since he's had such a good snog.

Barclay wraps his hands around Tom's waist, palms hot and rough where they're slid just beneath the hem of Tom's t-shirt. "I just want... whatever I can have. If it's a snog, fine. If it's a shag... fine. I just... _want_."

Tom breathes out a shaky breath and lets the hand on Barclay's cheek trail back to rest at the back of his neck. "You can take whatever you want from me."

Barclay breathes like he's on the verge of words but can't decide which to say first, so instead he surges forward and closes the gap between their lips again.

Tom makes a small noise that's not entirely voluntary and wraps his second arm around Barclay as well. He gets both his knees on the sofa and twists around so he doesn't have to lean quite so awkwardly to keep kissing Barclay.

Barclay's hands around his waist help to haul Tom into Barclay's lap and then suddenly he's being lifted and all Tom can do is wrap his legs around Barclay and cling on as he's carried somewhere -- presumably the bedroom.

This is all -- quite forward, considering that Barclay's _never_... Well. Tom is definitely not going to complain. Judging by how Barclay presses him into the wall instead of setting him down on a bed and pushes in to deepen their kiss he supposes Barclay's as into all this as he is.

"Sorry," Barclay rasps when they need to breathe. "I've just... I've always -- and you're so fit, jesus."

Tom can't help himself -- he laughs a little, raspy though the sound is.

"You're really not so bad yourself," he says. "And you smell so fucking good."

Barclay's eyebrows furrow and then he tilts his head to sniff at himself. "I smell like motor oil. Are you a bit mad?"

Tom flushes, but the bedroom is dark and he's probably already working quite the blush. "No. I just... like the smell of motor oil. It's not that weird. Lots of people do."

Barclay laughs and bends down to kiss Tom's temple. "You're ridiculous. But I'm glad. If you weren't ridiculous, you might not be here."

"I'm intriguingly quirky. It's endearing," Tom corrects and lets his tongue tease at the lobe of Barclay's ear, given that it's right there.

Barclay's breath stutters a bit and then his hand moves and the room is bathed in light.

It's a tiny room, scarcely room for more than the bed and a rickety bedside table with a box of tissues and a tube of lube on the top platform. The bed’s neatly made, which makes Tom feel a bit like cooing. He doesn’t know anyone who doesn’t live with their mum who genuinely makes their bed in the mornings.

Tom grins and wraps his legs more firmly around Barclay, trying to take some of his own weight when Barclay turns and goes down onto his knee on the mattress, setting Tom down.

"Solo adventures?" Tom asks, throwing an arm out to vaguely point to the bedside table when he comes to lie back against the pillow.

Barclay's mouth twists like he's refusing to look embarrassed. It's dreadfully endearing. "Not much to do out here in the fields and pastures, is there?"

Tom has a thought to make a joke about the sheep, but there's a time and place, and this is definitely not it.

"Well, there's me now," he says with a wicked grin.

Barclay nods, pulling back to give Tom room to prop up on his elbows. "Is that how you like it?"

Tom smiles and leans up to peck Barclay on the lips.

"I like it either way," he says. "And I can show you what to do either way."

Barclay swipes his hand over his hair, a nervous gesture. "I don't even know what I want. I'd sorta -- not gave up hoping, 'cause that sounds pathetic, but..."

"That's okay," Tom says. "We can figure it out. For my part, I'd quite like it if you took your shirt off."

Barclay grins again at that and reaches behind his neck to pull off the jumper in one long movement.

Tom's not disappointed.

He is very, very far from disappointed if he's being honest. One of his hands comes up to run his flat palm over the pronounced lines of Barclay's pecs and then down over his abs and he takes a moment to thank and laugh at all the people who've passed up their chance to get here first. They're missing out.

"Not too bad?" Barclay asks. It's clear from his face that he knows the answer.

Tom indulges him anyway. "I've never been so glad to nearly get exploded."

Barclay grins and fits his hand in between Tom's legs. "We can always make that 'nearly' a 'definitely'."

Tom laughs even as a warm shudder spreads up his spine. "I know what you meant, but I'd rather not get blown up, thanks. Maybe just blown?"

"Yeah," Barclay says, licking his lips like he's thinking about it. "Yeah, I can definitely do that."

Tom pulls off his own shirt and then they're kissing again, slow and scorching and heated.

Barclay's tongue sweeps into Tom's mouth warm and firm and insistent and Tom can't help thinking about how he'll definitely enjoy having that mouth on other parts of him just as much.

Barclay's hands shake a little as he undoes Tom's fly, but he doesn't stop, so Tom doesn't ask him again. Instead he lifts his hips and makes it easier for Barclay to pull of his trousers, kicking them down his legs as soon as they're far enough down.

Barclay looks down Tom's body with wet pink lips and dark eyes and then suddenly he barks a laugh. "Bit patriotic?"

"Wha-?" Tom says and then looks down his chest. "Oh," he says when he spies the Union Jack tented a bit obscenely by the bulge of his cock. "Forgot I had those on."

Barclay kisses him again. "I like it."

Tom's a little embarrassed, but to be fair, he hadn't planned on anyone seeing his pants when he dressed this morning. At least they're clean.

"Think that's more patriotic, actually," Tom murmurs when Barclay pulls his mouth away again. Barclay winks and scoots down, hesitating a bit before pressing a close mouthed kiss right to where the crosses intersect over Tom's cock.

Barclay's mouth is hot and soft and he nuzzles his face against Tom's cock like it's something wonderful, mutters _smell good_ and kisses over it again just to feel it jump.

"Fuck." Tom curses under his breath and curls a hand into the duvet underneath him. Barclay's definitely not shy. He's not full of bravado the way Tom had been his first time, blustering through everything like he knows exactly what he's doing while waiting to be guided. Instead he just... goes for it. Explores.

His teeth and tongue nip at the elastic of Tom's pants and a fire shoots sparks through Tom's belly.

"Anytime you want, love," Tom says, concentrating on making his voice sound even and his hips stay still on the bed.

Barclay pulls back and moves to undo his own fly. "Can I? Only it's getting a bit, er, crowded."

"Yeah, of course. Take 'em off," Tom says, wetting his lips. Barclay's shimmying his jeans down his legs, displaying his own soft grey briefs and Tom thinks he should maybe return the favor. To be polite.

It's damn impressive, is the thing. Definitely in proportion to the rest of Barclay, with his big shoulders and massive hands and thick thighs.

Tom hums, pleased, only catches himself at it when the noise is already out and smiles up at Barclay when he flushes.

"You can take those off too. If you want."

Barclay palms himself, watching Tom watch him. "Yeah? It's alright?"

"'S’more than alright with me. If you're comfortable," Tom says and reaches out a hand to trace the hem stretched over Barclay's thigh.

When Barclay eases his pants down, Tom's mouth goes a little dry and his stomach clenches and he knows, now, what the plan is. He wants that cock inside him.

He can't help the way his hips shift a bit at the thought. It's been a while for Tom and seeing what he's working with is not making him want it any less.

"I'd like to ride you," he says. He's found communication is a good thing in these situations. "That okay with you?"

A pearl of precome beads up at the head of Barclay's cock as his big hand squeezes tight around the base, and Tom takes that as yes, yes that's alright.

He lets a slow smile spread over his lips and then hooks his thumbs into the waist band of his own pants, catching Barclay's eyes and raising his eyebrows in a question.

He isn't so big and thick, but he's also much shorter as a whole person and Tom's never been shy about the fact that his cock's pretty great as it is. Serves him well. Does what it ought, thank you.

Barclay nods eagerly, so Tom shucks his pants and pulls his legs up to pull them off over his ankles and then unceremoniously drops them off the bed. While he's at it, he's pulling off his socks. There's never really a good moment for that anyway.

"Still good?" he asks.

Barclay looks like he's hardly breathing. He's still squeezing his cock at the base and staring at Tom with flicking eyes like he can't decide where to look first, where he's _allowed_ to let his eyes rest.

So Tom just settles back onto the bed, stretches out and lets Barclay look his fill. He's not shy. He quite likes the greedy way Barclay looks him over, actually.

"Not that I think you'll laugh at me," Barclay hedges, "But I might not last that long."

Tom doesn't want to laugh at him -- he wants to kiss him, and he wants to hug him, and he wants to taste his come. "You want me to take the edge off with a quick one before you open me up? Takes some time anyway."

Barclay bites his lip so hard it looks like it'd hurt a little. "I... yeah. Yeah.”

Tom grins up at him and scrabbles up into a sitting position.

"Switch," he says with a grin.

Barclay sighs, low and growling, as he lies back on the bed and Tom moves to hover over his thighs.

"You can put your hands in my hair, if you want," Tom says and then leans down, licking up the precome that's already stuck to Barclay's heated skin.

Barclay isn't so loud about his appreciation that it's obscene, but he's not shy about this, either, the tension in his hips melting under Tom's hands.

Tom maybe kind of wants to show off a bit, but he also doesn't want to completely overwhelm Barclay, so he takes it slow; fits his lips around the head and lets his tongue tease at him a bit first, listens to the hitches in Barclay's breath and then takes him down slowly.

Barclay's thigh trembles next to Tom's cheek, and he smooths a hand down along the skin to calm him. Tom keeps his eyes open. Hollows his cheeks. Looks up at Barclay through his lashes.

Barclay groans deep in his chest and Tom has to pull off to let his lips spread in the grin they want to before taking Barclay's cock into his mouth again.

Barclay's hand is a heavy paw when he rests it against Tom's head. "Fuck, that's good."

Tom hums and hollows his cheeks, moves his head back up and lets his hand come to circle around the base.

"Could live in your fucking mouth." Barclay's legs stretch, belly tenses.

Tom lets one of his hands trail up over Barclay's stomach, enjoying the heat that radiates from him, speeding the movement of his head and hand up a bit.

Barclay catches the wandering hand and then there's the shock-wet of Barclay sucking down on two of Tom's fingers like he's mimicking, trying to recreate what Tom's doing. Like he's learning from it. It's hotter than Tom would have thought, had he thought about it at all and he moans around Barclay's cock, pressing his own hips down into the duvet.

"Oh -- god -- that -- " Barclay sounds choked; there's a splash of warning salt against Tom's tongue.

Tom makes another pleased noise, sucks in a breath through his nose and goes down.

This time he might be showing off. A little. Barclay's big enough that he can't actually get all of him, but fuck if he's not going to try.

He works him down past his gag reflex slowly, at least far enough that Barclay can feel it when he swallows against it.

" _Ohmyfuck_ ," Barclay grunts, "How a'you -- I'm -- "

Tom balls his hand in the sheets so he won't grin, concentrates on what he's doing with his mouth and wiggles his tongue a bit, trying to coax Barclay's orgasm out of him.

Barclay is lovely about it, really: doesn't even thrust up and choke Tom when he comes, cock pulsing.

Good blowjob etiquette, that.

Tom pulls back up a little, so his lips are circled back around the head of Barclay's cock, letting his come hit his tongue. He had wanted to taste him after all.

Barclay looks spectacular when Tom pulls off and eases the last drops through with a gentle hand. His body is relaxed and smooth against the bedclothes and his collarbones shimmer with a hint of sweat but his eyes are burning with life as he follows Tom's every movement like a laser.

Tom smiles and then licks his lips in an outrageously showy move he may or may not have practiced in front of a mirror one really lazy and boring summer afternoon. He was nineteen, okay. And it's served him well.

"Holy shit," Barclay mutters. "That was just a quick one to you? _God_."

Tom grins and shifts up a bit, leaning down to hover over Barclay's face.

"Well, it wasn't a marathon."

He bends down to kiss, but remembers -- Barclay's new. So instead he asks, "D'you mind?"

"Mind?" Barclay asks, brows furrowing.

"Cause I've had your dick in my mouth," Tom says, though he thinks if Barclay's _asking_ that probably means he doesn't. Mind, that is.

Barclay just laughs and pulls Tom down into a deep kiss, like he's _trying_ to taste the last of his come on Tom's tongue. "'S'my'own dick."

"Well, you've probably not sucked it before," Tom mumbles. "Some people are weirded out by their own come. Or any come, really."

"Well, I'm not," Barclay says.

A slow smile spreads over Tom's face as he settles his weight across the warm tops of Barclay's thighs. "Good to know."

Barclay reaches between Tom's legs with his hand again then, fitting it around his cock and giving it a curious pull.

"Ah," Tom makes, not having expected it. "You don't -- don't have to. 'S’not that urgent."

"I just want it to be good," Barclay says, eyes so open.

"Well, it's definitely good," Tom says.

Barclay runs his thumb around the crown of Tom's cock. "What do I do now? To -- open you up?"

"Lube and fingers," Tom says. "Basically just how you'd imagine."

He grabs hold of one of Barclay's hands, just holding it for a bit.

"I don't want to do it wrong," Barclay mutters. "It never feels good when I try on myself."

"It's harder to make it feel good on yourself," Tom says and brings Barclay's hand up to press a kiss to it. "I won't let you do it wrong. I'll show you how to make it good for me, yeah?"

Barclay nods and sits up enough to wrap his arms around Tom's waist for another kiss like he's steeling himself.

"We don't have to," Tom says when they pull away from each other. "Anything's fine by me."

"God, I really want to," Barclay says quickly. "I really, really want to."

"Okay, good. That's the spirit. That's what makes it fun," Tom says with a grin and leans in for another quick kiss.

Then he kneels up over Barclay's chest until he can reach the tube of lube on the bedside table.

He flicks the cap open with one hand and brings their twined ones up.

"Generally a good rule of thumb for lube is 'more than you think you'd need,’" Tom says and squeezes out a dollop onto Barclay's fingers. "Unless you're someone who generally overshoots."

Barclay snorts. "You tell me whether I... overshoot. It was your mouth."

Tom sticks out his tongue.

He uses his own fingers to spread the cool gel over Barclay's and then reaches down with his slick fingers to give one of Barclay's nipples a teasing pinch.

Barclay jolts a little and squeaks, and that makes Tom laugh again.

He shouldn't be so fond of someone he just met.

Who lives in the middle of nowhere.

For what will -- will probably be a one-night stand. Much as maybe he doesn't want that.

He ducks down for a quick kiss and then shuffles up onto his knees a bit, leans forward so that Barclay has more room to... get his fingers inside him. One night stand or not, that's definitely something he's looking forward to.

Tom drapes his arms over Barclay's shoulders so that he can whisper encouragement in Barclay's ear.

"Just... get your fingers inside me. Start with one," he says, flushing a bit. He's never been the one to teach someone this before.

He closes his eyes and tries to relax as one of Barclay's fingertips touches and circles lightly.

The first one's never that much of a stretch if he's calm enough so he breathes calmly and nuzzles into the side of Barclay's neck.

"Okay?" Barclay asks as he pushes at Tom's rim. 

Tom hums agreeably. "Go 'head.”

"You're so hot," Barclay murmurs back. "I don't know why you're lettin' me do this but I can't wait to get inside you."

"Have you not got a mirror around?" Tom says, chuckling a bit. Barclay's first finger breaches him then and he rocks back against the intrusion.

"Can't get in myself no matter how up myself I seem." Barclay's joke is on point even though he's absentminded and wild-eyed.

"Good thing you're about to get in _me_ then," Tom says, pressing a sucking kiss to Barclay's shoulder. "Move your finger a bit."

The first finger is easy even though Barclay's hands are big. There's a bit of burn in Tom's thighs, but he likes it.

Barclay starts pushing and pulling his finger in and out a bit and Tom pulls back from his shoulder to go for a kiss. Barclay's staring at him a bit like he's in awe.

Tom kisses him again, biting lightly at his lower lip. "Try curling it a little instead of just like... poking."

Barclay makes a noise that sounds half wounded and half amused but does as Tom suggests, curling his finger. Tom wiggles his hips a bit, trying to help out.

Barclay's brow wrinkles. "Is that better?"

"Try a bit further in and -- down," Tom says, biting at his lip.

Barclay listens, moves his hand, and with the other arm he hauls Tom a little closer.

It's luck, probably, but it jostles Tom or Barclay's finger around so that that familiar spark of pleasure shoots up Tom's spine.

"Yesss," he hisses. "Right there."

Barclay's face breaks open like a miracle. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, fuck," Tom says, chuckling a little breathlessly. "Prostate. Does wonders."

Barclay snorts. "Sexy talk, mate."

Doesn't matter -- it is sexy, and Tom's buzzing in Barclay's hands.

"Just-- get another finger in there, yeah?" Tom says rolling his hips down.

It's a little too fast but the burn is so good, and Tom groans, lips dragging against the side of Barclay's dark-stubbled cheek.

"Good?" Barclay asks, which may be a bit redundant. Tom's pretty sure all the signs he's giving off point firmly towards 'very good' but then again.

"Yeah. Feels so good.” He tugs at Barclay's ear with his teeth. "Start spreading your fingers out. You have to stretch me... cock's so big."

Barclay huffs something like a laugh next to Tom's own ear, but does as he's told, scissoring his fingers just the tiniest bit.

Tom's not quite hard anymore, but he can feel Barclay starting to stir against his thigh again.

He makes sure to roll his hips down firmly enough to push his thigh down onto Barclay's cock then, grinning into the hair by the side of Barclay's head.

"What more do you need?" Barclay asks. His voice is strained.

"Another finger," Tom says, and it's not the answer Barclay wants, but he doesn't fancy being in pain.

Barclay sucks kisses into his neck, but pulls his two fingers back a bit so it's easier to push the third in alongside them.

"Feels really tight," he mumbles. Barclay moans deep in his chest and Tom can feel his hips shift beneath him. Tom feels a flash of a sudden awareness that this'll be the _first_ time Barclay'll do this, that Tom is the first person he'll feel like that. He's never put particularly much stock into the whole virginity thing, but this somehow feels a bit like it's maybe something to remember.

It really is isolated around here.

He rolls his hips down against Barclay's fingers, makes his body accept the intrusion. Barclay is... substantial. Tom's gonna need a few moments.

"Li’l’bit more," he mutters, "And I'll be ready."

"Don't rush," Barclay says. "Don't wanna hurt you."

Tom smiles and nuzzles his cheek. "'S’alright. You won't. Don't fancy pain much."

Barclay laughs and kisses Tom's shoulder. "What do you fancy?"

"Right now I fancy getting on your cock," Tom says.

Barclay's breath stutters, but he lets his fingers slide away until Tom is clenching on nothing. "I've condoms in the drawer. Er, I'll -- I'll get one."

"That'd be good," Tom says mildly. His thighs are already straining a bit with holding him up. It'll be better once he gets properly situated in Barclay's lap.

While Barclay's turned around to get the condom, Tom tucks three fingers into himself just for a last check. He smears a bit more lube around the rim, too, and then pumps at his cock with a slick hand to get full-on hard again.

It's a bit of an ordeal, this whole thing, but it's always worth it.

When Barclay turns back Tom slows his hand on his cock, holding it more than wanking himself and watches him tear the foil open and roll the condom on.

Tom presses his palm against Barclay's chest. "Lie back."

Barclay does and Tom scoots forward, grabs the tube of lube again and coats Barclay's cock as well, for good measure.

Barclay almost whimpers just from Tom's hand slicking him.

"You good?" Tom asks, shuffling forward.

Barclay nods, looking up at Tom like he's the sunset or a shooting star or some kind of major cosmic disturbance that will change the world.

It's a bit daunting, but Tom smiles at him and grabs for Barclay's cock behind him, positioning it.

Barclay's hands curve around Tom's hips. Tom isn't sure who it's meant to steady.

He tries not to hold his breath and sinks down, holding Barclay's cock firmly until the head's popped inside and isn't likely to slip out again if he lets go.

Barclay's eyes are shut, forehead tense in a 'v' between his brows, mouth slack and wet and pretty.

Tom takes his time taking him in, both inside his body and the sight of Barclay looking him up and down where he's spread out like some sort of unholy sacrificial lamb.

"Still good?" he asks, even though it's spelled out over Barclay's face, once he's firmly seated on Barclay's cock and starts grinding his hips in small circles, just to get them both used to the sensation.

Barclay looks beyond words, his mouth working once before he just shakes his head a little -- nods -- nods again.

Tom laughs breathlessly and smoothes his hands up over Barclay's chest and holds on to his shoulders to lean down and press a sweet kiss to his mouth.

"You look like it's a good thing I'm doing all the work."

"Uh-huh." Barclay's forehead smooths out and he laughs once, breathless and sheepish and lovely. "Sorry. 'S'true."

"No matter, love," Tom says and kisses him again before straightening back up. "You look gorgeous."

"You feel gorgeous." Barclay's voice barely comes from him, just a smoke across the space between them and it shivers through Tom's body.

"Ta," Tom says and lifts his hips a bit, working himself up and down Barclay's cock slowly, hands on Barclay's stomach for support and eyes on his face to take in the way the pleasure's spelled out there.

Tom knows that he's good at this, has good thighs from all the football and knows just how to move.

It's not his first rodeo either and as with his mouth on Barclay before he finds he wants to show off a bit, so he speeds his hips up, grinds down and tilts his hips a bit, hoping to find the angle Barclay's fingers had found before again.

Barclay finds his bearings and tries to move with him -- he gets his feet flat against the mattress and then Tom's pitched forward just enough that his cock rubs against Barclay's belly with every movement.

He groans at that and looks down to see precome dribble out of his cock and smear over Barclay's belly. He always likes how messy things can get when it's good.

"It's so good," Barclay slurs, and when Tom glances at his face, Barclay's not even talking to him, he's staring down at the place where they're joined, babbling to himself.

"Hmm, yeah," he agrees anyway, enjoying the strain in his thighs almost as much as the drag of Barclay's cock inside him. "Your cock feels so good inside me."

Barclay's eyes darken like he's in pain at that. "God, _fuck_."

Tom grins.

"Want me to tell you more?" he asks. "The things I'd wanted you to do when I first saw you? The things I wanted to do to _you_?"

Barclay nods, eyes black, hands scrambling against the meat of Tom's bum like he'd leave scratches if he could. Instead his rough-callused fingertips press and drag against Tom's soft skin and Tom shifts back to get every inch of Barclay's cock in deep.

"Wanted to kiss you immediately. You've such nice lips," Tom says, straightening his spine and then leaning backwards, hands grabbing for Barclay's thighs to change up the angle a bit. "Did that."

Barclay nods and stares up at him, hands still scrabbling at Tom's bum.

"Wanted to blow you too. Did that."

Barclay nods again, and his mouth makes the shape of the words _so good, babe_ even though no sound comes out.

"Wanted to bend over for you as well. Could tell you'd have a great cock. Feel so good," Tom babbles, half fantasy and half commentary. "Sort of doing that now, yeah? Got you inside."

Barclay's hips jump at that and Tom gasps as the force rockets him harder over Barclay's cock. They're close enough together now that Tom rests his forehead against the firm plane of chest muscles beneath him and gets one hand around his cock instead.

"Wanted to -- oh -- wanted to bend you over too. Stuff you full," he goes on, deciding to push a bit in the heat of the moment. Barclay hadn't seemed entirely averse to the idea before. "Could still do that tomorrow.”

" _Yes_." Barclay growls, and Tom loves it. He loves how big Barclay is and how he's not this shy thing anymore, not with his cock all slick-stuffed in Tom's arse, not the way he's moving Tom on him like he weighs nothing more than a ragdoll in his big hands.

Barclay's hips are coming up to meet his now and they've almost got something like a rhythm going. He's a quick study, this mechanic.

"Yeah?" Tom breathes, opening his mouth over the skin beneath him to let his hot, damp breath wash over it. "You like that?"

Barclay rumbles a yes and Tom feels the vibrations of it under his lips. He moans back and tilts his hips again, letting Barclay do the work and trying to make him hit his prostate again. His cock is so drippy in his hand that even if he doesn't find it, Tom's going to come soon anyway.

"I can't -- I," Barclay says then, hands clawing into the meat of Tom's arse hard enough it’s liable to bruise.

"Gonna come soon?" Tom asks. Barclay whimpers and Tom can see him nod when he looks up at him.

"Good," Tom murmurs, and drags his teeth across Barclay's chest lightly, lightly. "Want you to come. Fill me up."

Barclay makes an almost broken sound at that, hips losing their rhythm a bit as he starts chasing his own orgasm. Tom lets the hand on his cock speed up and twist on the upstroke, the way he really likes it.

He comes first, since this will be Barclay's second of the night. There's a slash of white across Barclay's tanned skin and Tom's hand smears through it as he grapples to keep himself from collapsing.

"Oh -- god, did -- did you?" Barclay stutters, one hand letting go of Tom's bum and reaching around to feel for his soft cock. Tom cries out at the unexpected sensation.

 _I did that,_ Barclay whispers to himself, and then louder to Tom, his voice strained with the need to come. "I did that. You came on my cock."

"Yeah, babe, I did," Tom says, heart still racing with his orgasm, but his mind clearing from it, making it easier to grind back dirtily. "You felt so good inside I made a mess all over you. Couldn't help myself."

"I wanna do it again," Barclay whispers. "All the time."

Tom laughs a bit breathlessly.

"'s good, yeah?" he asks, clenching his muscles a bit, wanting Barclay to come again too.

Barclay nods and groans and comes with a broken, raw noise.

He's shaking a bit and Tom slows his hips until he's grinding gently, running his hands over Barclay's arms.

"I've got you," he says.

Barclay's thighs shake as they splay out flat against the mattress again so Tom is just seated in his lap, curled over against Barclay's messy belly and chest.

He hums happily, watching Barclay's chest rise and fall with heavy breaths.

"That was nice," Tom sighs contently.

Barclay's arms seem a little useless when he pets at Tom's hair. Tom lifts off with a regretful sigh. Barclay pouts, too, and Tom can't help giggling a little and kissing him before Barclay ties off the condom and drops it over the side of the bed.

"You got tissues handy?" Tom asks, lazily gesturing to where there's come all over Barclay's belly.

Or actually, given the lube still tacky and slick on and in him, a shower might be nice.

"Or are you up for a shower?" he turns to Barclay to ask.

"Give my jelly-legs a minute," Barclay murmurs. He's pretty when he stretches out long and lean across the length of the bed, every muscle defined and satisfied and hot.

"A minute's good," Tom says. "Could use a minute myself."

He reaches out and traces his fingers over the definition of the muscles in Barclay's arm, enjoying the heat of his skin and the firmness underneath.

There's a curling black script tattoo on Barclay's forearm that Tom hadn't noticed before, and he lifts the arm over so he can read it. "'Taking care of business.' Bit cheesy, innit?"

Barclay shrugs, lazy smile on his face.

"Does what it says on the tin, though," he grins at Tom.

Tom wrinkles his nose and sticks his tongue out at Barclay. "But really, why'd you get it? It's not even a good song."

"It's not for the song," Barclay laughs. "It's -- like, I've had to take care of myself and like, family and things for a long time, and when I bought this place and got started it was like... it fit, you know? I'm taking care of business. That's what I do."

Tom halts a bit and licks his lips reflexively.

"That's... a bit sad," he says.

"It's not that sad," Barclay reassures him. "It's also my wanking hand. Couldn't resist."

Tom grins, noses at the skin and then presses a quick kiss to the tattoo. It feels a bit too personal to pry, but he can't help thinking of how he's always been relatively carefree.

"Well, if it's your wanking hand..." he says.

Barclay looks a little goggle-eyed. "You really need more? I can't even feel my body below the eyebrows."

Tom laughs, shaking his head.

"Not what I meant. I'm good for now, but thanks for the offer. Might take you up on that tomorrow."

Before Barclay falls right asleep, he heaves himself out of the bed and shows Tom the way to the bathroom. It's small like the rest of the apartment, little more than a shower, a sink, and some toothpaste, but the water is hot and feels good when they get under the spray. There are finger-shaped bruises on Tom's bum.

"This part isn't... particularly sexy," Tom says, reaching behind him to rub rub at his bum, trying to get rid of the slick feeling the lube leaves behind. It's sexy while he's at it, but he's not a big fan of it once everything's said and done.

"I think it's alright," Barclay says, watching Tom with soft eyes. "You're fit enough."

"Oh, thanks," Tom says, a little sarcastically, but also leans forward to give Barclay a quick peck against the sting of it.

Barclay just hands Tom the nub of bar soap, grinning.

Tom takes it, stares down at it and then at Barclay.

"There are so many jokes to be made right now, I don't quite know where to start."

Barclay just spits a little stream of water at Tom and finishes soaping his broad chest. He does look sleepy, and a little raw and frazzled behind his eyes, like something about tonight's worn him to the bone.

Tom remembers that feeling.

They finish cleaning off in silence and Tom lets Barclay reach past him and shut off the water once the soapy suds have all drained away.

"D'you happen to have a spare tooth brush?" he asks. "I'll just use my finger and some toothpaste otherwise."

"I don't, sorry," Barclay says apologetically. "Truth be told, I don't usually clean my teeth in the evening, just the mornings. I'm gross. I do have a towel for you, though."

"Well, I guess that'll do. If you don't mind I'll still give my teeth a little clean. I want to keep them," Tom quips.

"Yeah, go ahead," Barclay says. "You can use my brush or your fingers or... whatever you like. I'll, er. I'm gonna change the sheets. I wasn't expecting, you know. A guest. They might be a bit..." He waves his hand.

Tom watches his bum as he shuffles back to the bedroom.

It's a good bum. He hopes Barclay's earlier enthusiasm to things being done to it weren't just down to the heat of the moment.

As for the sheets, well. They're definitely "a bit..." now, aren't they?

Tom grins to himself and then squeezes a bit of tooth paste onto his finger. He'd be fine using Barclay's brush if he dunked it in boiling water first or something, but he feels silly doing that now, so this'll have to do.

He cleans his teeth with cold water from the sink and a little pea of toothpaste as sheets rustle from the bedroom.

It's all a bit... domestic, isn't it? Except for how he doesn't have a tooth brush. Or anything to put on to go to sleep in. And has to look for the light switch when he's done.

When he wanders back into Barclay's bedroom, the sheets have been replaced with warm navy blue blankets and there's a second pillow on the bed, only slightly flat with disuse.

He grins and then wonders if he should pretend that he cares that he won't have fresh underwear for tomorrow. He could give his pants a rinse in the bathroom sink and leave them to dry for tomorrow. Or ask to borrow some off Barclay, maybe.

Barclay offers Tom a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, but Tom only takes the sweats. He'll be warm enough sharing the bed; he always is.

It's not that big a bed either, so there'll be plenty of body heat to go around.

"Do you have a preferred side?" he asks Barclay.

Barclay shakes his head, then pauses and makes 'L' with his fingers, staring at the bed. "The... left. I think. I've never really thought about it."

"Well. I guess we'll find out," Tom says and gets in on the right side.

The room is so dark when Barclay shuts out the lights. There's no ambience coming through the window, no streetlights, no buildings. The only sound is wind across the pasture and the lonely creaking of the old building settling. And Barclay, breathing.

It makes Tom a bit hyperaware of everything, like when you're a kid staying somewhere that isn't home and the room feels so unfamiliar to you that you stare into the darkness with wide eyes and wait for your eyes to adjust.

The sheets rustle and the bed moves as Barclay gets in. Tom scoots over a bit when their arms brush.

"Sorry," Barclay whispers.

"No, it's alright."

It's silly that he moved away; it's not like they haven't slept together already. Once Barclay seems settled, Tom rolls over so that he's facing the roaring warmth glowing out from Barclay's chest.

"Hi," he says and then immediately regrets it. What are they, five year olds at a sleepover whispering in the dark thinking they've totally fooled the resident parent into believing they're asleep?

Barclay's fingers brush Tom's hip. "Hi."

"Thanks for letting me stay," Tom murmurs.

"My pleasure," Barclay says with the kind of inflection that makes Tom sure he's doing something with those ridiculous eyebrows of his, even if he can't make them out in the dark.

Tom giggles under his breath anyway, nose wrinkling. His foot snakes out under the blankets until he can wrap his ankle over Barclay's calf.

"Oh, hello," Barclay says and shifts his legs so they're slotted together. "Are you... do you ... cuddle? Usually?"

Tom yawns, nods so that his ear shushes an affirmative noise on the pillow. "I do like a cuddle in my sleep."

"Yeah? Well, come here then," Barclay says. The duvet rustles again as he lifts his arm and feels out for Tom's to pull him closer.

Tom nestles his head on Barclay's chest; apparently he did opt for the t-shirt. His legs are bare, though, only in pants, and hot against Tom's even through the sweats.

"You have a very good chest," he mumbles against the fabric. Now that he's a bit more settled, the day is catching up with him. He's got no idea what time it is, but it suddenly feels like it's high time to close his eyes and get some rest.

"Thanks." Barclay sounds sleepy and muffled, too. His hand rubs down Tom's back. "You've a good. Face."

Tom huffs a little amused breath, but there's not really much heat behind it. The motion of Barclay's hand on his back is a bit too soothing and hypnotic to stay awake much longer.

"'Night," he says.

Barclay doesn't answer. He doesn't snore in the night, either, for which Tom is grateful, but it still takes time to feel truly asleep.

Tom tries not to move around too much, but despite the exhaustion in his bones he's finding it difficult to calm down. He sort of... really likes it here. In the middle of nowhere. Or, well, more specifically, in Barclay's bed. He shouldn't be so glad his van almost died and took them all with it, but, well, here he is.

He allows his fingers to rub at Barclay's chest through his t-shirt a little. Barclay huffs and wiggles a bit, but doesn't wake or move away. Tom can't help a little smile

Tom's never lacked for company when he wanted it, but he usually wants it for a little while and then absolutely craves being alone.

He isn't there yet. He'll be sad to leave.

Tom wakes to a crick in his neck where his face has slid to end up crammed between the mattress and Barclay's chest. He groans and rolls over onto his back. How did he even sleep like that at _all_? He must have been more exhausted than he thought.

There's a soft pressure on the back of his head, and then the mattress dips. "I'll go shut up the chickens," Barclay mutters. "D'you remember where the bathroom is if you need it?"

"Mm, yeah. Thanks," Tom says quietly and then clears his throat against the morning disuse. He reaches out an arm blindly to pat at whatever part of Barclay he can reach.

He finds cotton and Barclay squeaks, so it's somewhere in the pants region. Tom snuffles a laugh into the pillow, then rolls over and falls asleep again in the warm divot Barclay's body left behind.

When he wakes up a second time it's quiet, but there's sunlight coming in from the window like it's very much already daytime. There are noises from outside as well, nothing he can attribute to anything specifically but he figures it's coming from down at the shop.

Tom frowns to himself and tries to remember where he put his phone. How long has he been asleep?

He rubs his eyes as he pads out of Barclay's bedroom and takes two wrong turns -- out to the bathroom, back into the bedroom -- before he gets to the little kitchen/living room.

"Look," Barclay says happily from the stove. "The eggs both had two yolks, each. We're lucky."

"Yay," Tom says, bewildered more than enthusiastic. Is that... a thing? The yolks? "Wait, are those your own eggs? Like, your chickens'? Is that why you have them?"

Barclay nods. "Of course. Check it out."

There are a few more eggs in a basket, a real basket of eggs, next to Barclay's elbow. A few of the shells still have feathers stuck to them, and they're different from the eggs Tom knows: speckled, blue-gray, brown, some bigger and some smaller.

It's sort of really... fascinating. Cool.

"Huh," he says and reaches out to pluck a feather from one of the eggs, sniffing it. It smells like animal.

"I wouldn't recommend that," Barclay says, eyebrows fond as Tom wrinkles his nose. "The eggs taste better than they smell."

"That's good. The other way round would be a real disappointment," Tom says.

Barclay laughs again, but his big dark eyes are shy, like he can't quite look at Tom in the morning after, like he's unsure whether the spell of the previous evening has broken in the light.

Tom wraps his arms around Barclay from behind as he keeps frying the eggs on the stove. His face fits perfectly into the back of Barclay's shoulder.

This is all... very nice. Sleeping in a bit and having a nice man make him eggs that he went to get from his very own chickens.

"What time is it?" he asks then, remembering that he'd wondered earlier.

"Roundabout seven. I'm an early riser. Been up for a bit, unlike you, city-boy."

"Excuse you, seven is perfectly respectable. It's not my fault my job doesn't require me to be up at the arsecrack of dawn," Tom says. Huh. He'd thought it was later, actually. He sleeps past seven easily usually.

"Morning is nice," Barclay says, like he's insulted on morning's behalf. "It has a good arsecrack."

It's a good thing Tom's face is already buried in Barclay's shoulder, otherwise he'd have to put it there. Or into his hand.

"Really," he says.

Barclay wiggles a little and all Tom can do is hang on and try not to smile.

He feels a bit... giddy.

"Right, eggs are done," Barclay says then. "Is toast alright?"

"Of course toast's alright," Tom says. "I'm British; I have to like toast."

"Butter?"

"D'you have jam?" Tom asks. He doesn't quite let Barclay go even as Barclay attempts to get to the refrigerator, and Tom gets dragged along behind him.

"I have... strawberry. And orange marmalade? I don't know if you like that," he says and attempts to look back at Tom. Tom, for whatever reason, decides to duck down and hide behind Barclay's back.

"Alright," Barclay says. "I guess orange it is. D'you coach the kids or do they coach you?"

"It's a symbiotic relationship," Tom answers primly. He likes orange, actually. A lot of people think it's too bitter, but Tom likes a bit of that of a morning.

"Big words from a small man." Barclay drags Tom over to the little table and Tom melts into a chair. It's not terrifically comfortable, but it'll do. The eggs are fried lacy at the edges and there are indeed two bright yellow yolks just waiting to be pierced open into runny sauce for the toast.

"Thanks," he says when Barclay sits down as well. "Looks great."

Barclay goes a little pink again and forks up his eggs. "Are you -- d'you feel alright this morning?" He coughs. "I didn't, you know, hurt you, did I?"

Tom blinks a bit, puzzled, before it clicks.

"Oh! No. No, I'm fine. I mean... I guess I can... feel it? But it's not painful. Sort of like how you'd feel your muscles after a really intense footie game or something."

He probably blushes a bit. This is not awkward at all to talk about over breakfast.

Barclay has a dot of yolk on his lip when he nods. "That's good. Sounds... good, anyway."

Tom shrugs and then grins. "You'll find out.”

Barclay shifts in the chair and drinks a big gulp of too-hot tea, but he doesn't move away when Tom reaches across the little table to hold his hand.

"If you want to," he adds. It is a bit of a scary concept to think about.

Barclay looks like he's halfway to nodding before he says, "The parts for your van came already. We should get it fixed up by tonight."

_Ah._

"Oh, um. That's great! Thank you," he says and pulls his hand back, grabbing the orange marmalade and a piece of toast.

It's good. A good breakfast for a good morning. But somehow it makes Tom sad.

"Yup. You should be good to go by tonight," Barclay says. He's still smiling, so Tom musters a smile back. He's being ridiculous anyway. It's been lovely, but, well. What was he going to do? _Move in?_ Surely not.

Tom nods. "Good, that's good. The kids'll worry if they don't hear from me soon. And the girls might take up dance or karate or something, god forbid."

"Flighty things, are they?" Barclay asks. Tom shrugs.

"I think they just want to try everything. And they're only eight. They've not got the best attention span."

"What about you?"

Tom rubs his fingers over the whorls and hard edges of Barclay's fingertips before he answers. "I've got pretty good attention span, yeah."

"Don't want to try everything?" Barclay asks. Tom looks at him, considering. He can't tell if Barclay's just teasing or asking a loaded question.

He shrugs. "Well, I'm not eight."

Barclay snorts. "Thank god for that, mate. I suppose I should have asked that earlier on." Barclay has utterly destroyed his egg into tiny strips on the plate, and he shovels them all onto a piece of toast, which he folds in half and jams in his mouth before standing. He chews twice, then manages, "Casey'll be here in a bit. You want a shirt?"

"Um, yeah, thanks. A shirt would be good," Tom says, watching Barclay watch off towards his bedroom, his own toast still on his plate. He's a bit... lost.

Is he worried about Casey's reaction? Is he worried about _Tom's_?

Barclay comes back with a smile on his face and a shirt in his hand, toast gone. "You can have another shower, if you want. Or, basically, anything you can find.” He hands Tom the shirt. "I've got to, uh, open up downstairs? You can hang out here or come downstairs or... whatever you want?"

"I'll follow you," Tom says, and he lets his hand linger against Barclay's as he takes the shirt. "I want to see how you work."

"Oh. Alright," Barclay says. He grabs a jumper from the back of the sofa that Tom hasn't been paying attention to earlier and pulls it on over his t-shirt. He's wearing jeans as opposed to the sweatpants Tom is still in. Oh well.

Tom sighs as he watches Barclay lace up a pair of heavy boots. "You're so fit, you know."

Barclay actually grins at that. "Thank you," he says and then stands up, stepping a bit closer to Tom. "You're looking very cuddly this morning."

"I'm feeling pretty cuddly," Tom agrees. "Tends to happen when I spend the night with a nice guy."

Barclay hums and smiles and then briskly turns around. "Well, come on down then. You can observe Barclay Wheels come to life."

Tom gets on his cleats again since they're the only shoes he has, and then he trots along the stairs behind Barclay. The sign on the door is flipped to 'Open' and fresh water goes into the kettle on the countertop next to some clean, plain mugs.

"So are most people who come here people whose vans are about to explode, or do you do a lot of regular check-ups?" Tom asks, leaning against the counter.

"Bit of both," Barclay admits. "Service some tractors and such, too. I could drive a tractor before I could drive a car."

"Wow," Tom says. The idea of driving something that large and heavy has always intimidated him a bit. He knows they don't go very fast but that somehow only makes it worse.

"It's not that impressive," Barclay says. "It's a bit like a really big lawnmower."

Tom shrugs.

"Never driven a lawnmower either," he says. His family's never been one with a yard big enough to require driving the lawnmower.

"Now that's just a bit sad." Barclay opens the door and a little bell jingles as Casey comes inside, bacon sarnie held between his teeth.

"City boy born and raised," Tom grins.

"What's he trying to get out of doing?" Casey asks around his sandwich. "Or did he get scared of the dark in the night?"

"Oy," Tom says. "I've not been asked to do anything, actually, and I slept wonderfully, thanks for asking. How was your night?"

Casey grins. There's a bit of bacon caught between his front teeth. "Lonelier than yours, mate, sounds like. Although the internet is a lovely companion."

Tom wrinkles his nose. He's not sure if Casey meant for that to be an innuendo or not, but he would have been good without the mental images.

The answering dirty grin confirms that yes, Casey did mean it how it came across. Barclay rolls his eyes and kicks Casey's bum. "Go feed the sheep, you."

"Alright, alright," Casey says with a laugh, and turns back around through the door.

"So they are your sheep?" Tom asks. "Do you shear them and then spin their wool and weave your own jumpers or something? Because that would be truly impressive."

Barclay laughs. "No, I'm not that industrious, I'm afraid. They are my sheep. I couldn't part with them once I inherited them, although mostly they just shit a lot and make annoying noises."

"You inherited sheep?" Tom asks. How does that even...? Oh. Maybe he shouldn't have asked. Inheritance usually involves someone dying, doesn't it.

Barclay nods. He writes a few things in a ledger, clicks on an ancient computer, and then comes around the counter. "Did you want to look at the parts for your van?"

"I wouldn't know what they were," Tom says. "You could show me a bicycle bell and I'd be like, 'oh, yeah, clearly a better engine.'"

Barclay laughs. "Want to see them anyway? Maybe I'll let you guess a little. 'Which part does not belong in a car engine?'"

"I'd say... the bird or rat that got into my engine and made all the smoke come out." Tom pauses as he follows Barclay across the cold cement floor of the garage. "I won't have to look at a dead thing just now, will I?"

"No, we've removed all the blood and entrails," Barclay says solemnly. Tom's not sure he's joking.

He wrinkles his nose all the same and keeps his hands firmly wrapped around a hot mug of tea from the shop's kettle as Barclay opens up the van again and starts unwrapping the new parts from their protective foam and padding. 

He just doesn't know the first thing about them. He knows they did the basic of a combustion engine in physics back in year eleven or something, but that's not exactly stuff you retain for life unless you have to, is it.

Barclay is totally in his element, though, and Tom feels a little safer driving just from looking at Barclay's sure hands.

Now if there were a way for Barclay to make sure that no other small animals ended up splattered all over the insides of it, that'd be grand.

"You're not getting any of this are you," Barclay says, looking up from his hands to Tom.

"Nope," Tom says and takes a sip of his tea. "I'm enjoying it anyway, though."

Barclay grins. "Well, it'll be boring for a bit, unless you like staring at my boots. I've to get under the car now and see what's wrong with your fuel lines. You're free to wander the property, so long as you don't get lost. Give Kipling some company?"

"Alright," Tom says. "I'll not wonder too far and stay out of the woods."

He does like the little bunny. They've bonded last night.

Tom steps out of the shop just as Casey's stepping back in, and he can't help thinking about Casey's admonishment. _Barclay is worth sticking around for._

He's not the one who left the bed and then talked about how soon Tom can be leaving and handed him a shirt and hurried down into work, is he.

No. He's the one with a mug of tea, petting a rabbit.

Tom's not pouting. Kipling's nose is soft and curious when he snudges it up against Tom's fingers. There's no weight to him at all when he clambers up and down and up and down, in and out of Tom's lap.

He's fluffy and adorable and Tom's not wearing his own sweats so he sits down in the dirt and plays with a rabbit.

Barclay probably _is_ worth sticking around for. Or coming back to. But he can't do anything if Barclay thinks Tom's not worth keeping around, can he.

Kipling climbs up over Tom's hip and slip-slides, trouble getting traction over the lump where Tom's iPhone rests.

"Oh," Tom mutters, and takes it out. He can see where he is, even if he can't ring anyone to tell them. Maybe he's not so far, really. Maybe it's not -- not futile.

He had only been driving for thirty, forty minutes yesterday before the whole smoking incident. Certainly not longer than an hour. An hour's not bad. It's enough for weekends at least. And Tom usually works afternoons, so, like, he could stay nights.

God, what is he doing?

"Kipling," Tom asks, and he lifts the rabbit with one hand while the thumb of his other scrolls to find the GPS app. "What are we doing?"

A little pellet of rabbit poop lands in Tom's hand.

"Thanks, Kipling."

He's just... he's not going to take rabbit poo as some sort of sign, alright? The GPS app tells him it's about a forty-two minute drive back to Tom's address and technology is far more reliable than rabbit oracles anyway.

Right. Only what exactly is he going to do with this new found information?

Well, clean his hands, first thing. He sets Kipling down with a little handful of grass to munch on for the help, then gets to his feet and heads back to the garage.

"Barclay?"

He appears from under the van. "What's up?"

"D'you have a sink anywhere? Your rabbit's shit in my hand."

"He does that," Barclay says sympathetically. "Just off behind the counter."

"Thanks," he says and wanders back over to the counter, setting his mug down while he's at it. He should wash that, probably, only first he needs to get rid of the rabbit poo.

It's not a bad job. He cleans his hands and rinses out his mug and -- well, if his eyes surreptitiously wander to the ledger for the day, it's only because that's how eyes work.

And yes, more shit: he will be paying Barclay Wheels in installments for the rest of his life.

It does make him feel absolutely not guilty about not paying for his half of the pizza last night though. He's going to be paying for Barclay's pizza for a while, apparently.

Heaving a deep sigh he dries his hands and then the mug. Maybe he can get the sports club to chip in on the repair. He does use the van for work. He cleans the other two mugs in the sink while he's at it and rests them all back near the kettle. There have been no other customers in yet today. He supposes he could check the ledger for that as well, but, well. This isn't his place of business and that'd be snooping, wouldn't it.

He's probably just going to wander around a bit more. He's not met all the sheep yet, after all. He's curious about the chickens, too, and the way the eggs really came from right here, these chickens. That sounds a bit interesting.

Obviously he knows where eggs come from, but it's a bit different to see it in real life. Not the laying process, maybe, but the nests and the chickens and such.

He busies himself wandering and looking and maybe plays a little Candy Crush on his phone until Casey and Barclay call for him and they all have a quick sandwich or five for lunch.

It's nice. Very different from how he usually spends his days, but nice. He likes the change in scenery.

"So I got to know your chickens," Tom says, in between bites of sandwich. "Said thank you for the eggs and such."

Barclay smiles. There's a smudge of grease on his cheek.

"And," Tom says carefully, "I looked at my phone, and d'you know, this really only seemed so far because I was lost. It's just a little over half an hour from where I live."

Casey raises his eyebrows significantly and then ducks down over his sandwich like he didn't at all.

"Oh? That's not so far then," Barclay says. "Are you planning on actually making us your regular mechanic?"

"Well, my wallet and I are hoping I won't need a mechanic for a while," Tom says. "And I have faith you're good enough I won't. But I thought, you know. The kids might like to have a fan at their next match."

Casey looks up and then grabs his sandwich and mumbles something and scurries off. Tom tries very hard not to fidget in his seat and look like he's perfectly relaxed while Barclay studies him for a few moments.

"Are you... inviting me?" Barclay asks. Tom huffs a laugh.

"Yes."

"Oh." Barclay sounds like his throat is a bit dry, and he takes a long drink of Coke before he says, "Thanks. I do love a good footie match."

"Well, you'll be disappointed then," Tom says dryly. Barclay smiles a bit, but it's not really the smile Tom wanted. "But I think the company makes up for it, yeah?" He nudges Barclay's foot with his own under the table.

"Are you -- you don't have to act like this can... I mean, it was a good night, yeah? But I know I'm not that interesting come light of day."

Tom frowns. "What, you think I'd do that? String you along when I'm not interested just to-- what? What would I get out of that?"

"You could meet anyone," Barclay says. "I don't want you to feel obligated just 'cause, you know.” He coughs. “I'm not going to go cry at Casey if the fit guy who who was my first fuck or whatever doesn't want to be my boyfriend. That's all."

Tom opens his mouth to retort automatically, but then changes his mind and takes a deep breath. "Barclay. Do you want to see me again? Don't tell me what you think I want to hear, just... do you?"

"Hell yeah." 

His eyebrows are so serious that Tom can't help laughing a little and quickly covering with his hand. "Sorry, just… That's that then, isn't it. You want to see me again, I want to see you again, please come to the footie match."

Barclay swipes at his hair with high color in his cheeks. "I'd love to, yeah."

"Good. Now give me your number so I can call you to tell you when it is, though I think it's Saturday, and I'll give you mine."

They do, and then under the table, Barclay's long legs find Tom's ankles again and hold them tight.

Good. That's done then.

Tom smiles a happy smile to himself and goes back to finishing his sandwich.

His ankles are warm between Barclay's calves. After they eat, Barclay goes off under the car again and Casey slides into his place. He plays cards against Tom until Barclay yells that he doesn't know what he's paying Casey for if he's just going to loaf about being a flirt.

"That's exactly what you pay me for," Casey yells back, but winks at Tom and goes back into the garage to help Barclay out with whatever made him shout for Casey in the first place. Tom supposes that means he's back to chickens and sheep, if he doesn't want to play cards against himself.

He stays, though, and plays a game of real solitaire with real cards until it's too frustrating. He decides to go meet a cow, just to tell the kids that he did.

The cows are not at all as interested in meeting him as he is in meeting them, choosing to stay where they are, grazing or lazing about. They look calm and gentle but also like they could run Tom over without even noticing.

A bit like Barclay.

Maybe more spotted than he is, and with a bit more green foam around their lips.

He smiles to himself and when he turns back around towards _Barclay Wheels_ , he finds Barclay standing in the door, watching him.

"Making friends?" he asks.

"Introducing myself. As I'll be coming back."

He's just going to say it like it's a given.

A grin spreads across Barclay's face from the eyebrows down, and it's delightful.

"Your van's done," Barclay says. Tom grins.

"Thank you Mr. Barclay Wheels," he says and leans up for a kiss.

It's sweet and clinging and warm against Tom's wind-chilled face, and Barclay's hands are gentle when he touches Tom's cheek.

"I'm sorry your van broke down, but I'm a bit glad as well," Barclay says when he pulls back. Tom hums his agreement.

"Yeah, me too," he says.

Barclay insists on riding around with Tom in the van for a few laps of the shop to make sure that it's running smoothly, and maybe so they can park well out of view of Casey and snog for a bit.

Not that Tom's complaining. Barclay's kisses are just as lovely now as they were last night. They're the sort that make Tom want to climb over the center console and get in his lap, but Barclay's still got work and Tom should probably get back to somewhere with cell reception, just in case anyone's worried.

Also, he has a footie match to re-schedule.

"I'll call," he says. "Probably tomorrow."

Barclay nods. "Alright. I'll keep my calendar clear."

"Well, if it's not this footie match, it can be another one. I'll come back either way," Tom says.

"I can come to you, too," Barclay points out. "I may have learnt tractors first, but I do know a bit about operating a car."

"That's good to know, I suppose, since you dig around inside them all day," Tom says with a teasing smile.

Barclay just kisses him again for that, a little desperate and hungry like he's afraid that Tom won't actually call.

But he will.

The next day, he does, too. He lies on his bed in the flat he keeps in the city and stares out the window at all of the cramped space and electric lines and rushing of traffic as the phone rings.

It rings once, twice, three times, and Tom almost hangs up but then Barclay picks up. "Barclay Beales at Barclay Wheels; hello?" 

"Um, hi," Tom says. "It's Tom."

_Smooth, Tom. Very smooth._

"Oh!" Barclay sounds flustered. "Tom -- Tom, Tom the footie coach?"

"Yes, the Tom you had sex with," Tom confirms.

It startles a laugh out of Barclay, though it sounds at least half nervous.

"So, I've managed to reschedule the footie match for Saturday. D'you want to come?"

"Er, yeah, that sounds nice," Barclay says. "Should I bring anything?"

"Mmm... your face," Tom says thoughtfully. He lets his voice lower. "Maybe some clothes for Sunday."

"Oh," Barclay says, softly. Tom grins. Presumptuous, maybe, but one of them has to presume and Barclay's not going to be it.

"I mean, unless you'd rather not wear anything at all. I'd be fine with that," Tom says.

"No, I'll -- figure out something to bring. I'm staying at yours, then?"

"It's only fair. Although I can only offer a breakfast from a shop, as I don't think anything in the garden behind my flat is edible."

"I could bring some eggs, if you wanted," Barclay says. 

Tom chuckles a bit. "I think we'll be alright."

"I could bring Kipling."

"Then we'd have to reschedule the match again, as the kids would get nothing done. They've asked after Kipling already."

It's Barclay's time to laugh then. "Better not, then. So, um, when... is the match? And how do I get there?"

Tom reads him the directions from his phone so that he doesn't get as lost as Tom had on the winding country road between them. Barclay hums along and takes notes, maybe. Tom doesn't know, but he seems like the type to take notes.

"Think you'll be okay to find it?"

"Yeah, yeah. Should be fine. I've got your number if I get lost," Barclay says.

"Yeah. You don't have to just use it for that, though," Tom says carefully. "Ring whenever."

"Yeah, I-- I will," Barclay says. Tom thinks he'll probably at least think about ringing. Maybe after this weekend, he'll even do it.

He does, though, in the middle of the week, just to make sure Tom still wants him to come and that the match is still on. Tom reports that yes, it is, and yes, of course, but not in that order. He tells him about how Lillian and Ellie have asked about Kipling every day.

Barclay laughs and the longer they chat, the more he seems to relax. Tom keeps grinning to himself the entire time. He's smiling like a school boy with a crush, if he's honest, and Barclay can probably hear it on the other end of the line. Well. It's not like it's not at least a little bit true.

He hasn't looked forward to a weekend like this since they meant school hols, either. He even cleans the flat -- he even _dusts_. He feels a bit ridiculous, but, well. It is what it is. It keeps him occupied, frankly, the flat needed a good clean, and when he's done it all looks very... presentable.

By Saturday, of course, one of the kids rings him hourly to remind him of the game that afternoon. Mostly Ellie and Lillian. They're bossy little terrors like that, but they're great.

"Is Mr. Beales-Wheels coming?" Ellie asks on the last call before it's time for Tom to meet them all at the local pitch. "You said he would."

"He is. And, no, he's not bringing Kipling. I've told you," Tom says.

"Oh... I'd hoped you were joking and he's bringing him," she says. Tom tries to swallow his laughter.

"No, Ellie, you can't just cart a little bunny around all the time. They get scared."

"He wasn't scared of me," she brags. "Will you take us back to see him, then?"

"Maybe sometime," Tom equivocates. "It's nearly time for the match; have you eaten your lunch?"

"Yes! Even the green beans although they were yuck. But mummy says you need veggies to play footie well, so I did anyway," she says and heaves a sigh like the whole world weighs on her shoulders.

"Hmm, yes, that's very clever of your mum." It is. It had worked on him as well, when he'd been a boy.

"She's a clever sausage," Ellie agrees. "She says I have to go leave for the match soon. You'll be there, right?"

"Of course I'll be there, I'm your coach, aren't I?" he says. "You need to hang up though and let me leave or I'll be late."

Ellie hangs up on him without even a goodbye, and Tom has to laugh as he changes into his shorts and trackies and sweatshirt. He'd rather look glamorous and fit to see Barclay again, but coaching is not a particularly glamorous profession. Not unless it's much, much higher stakes than the kids.

And those coaches often have mustaches and beer bellies, so he thinks he's probably still a bit better off if he wants to impress, actually. He's got his shorts, at least. He knows he's got good legs.

He loads a cooler of squash and oranges into his van, makes sure he has his whistle and his keys, and sets off.

His heart is pounding.

It's ridiculous. He knows Barclay likes him (well, he hopes he's not changed his mind) and he's coached so many games, he knows not to be nervous about that. The most important part is that his kids have fun and if there's one thing he's good at, it's fun.

But, yeah. He's not faring much better once he climbs out of the van at the pitch, cooler in one hand, net of balls in the other, so he takes a few slow, steadying breaths.

"Hey."

Tom turns and there's Barclay Beales of Barclay Wheels, standing right at the side of the pitch with a fresh haircut and a hideous granddad-jumper and jeans that fit just right.

He kinda wants to drop the cooler and the net and wrap his arms around his neck and snog him, but. Well. Job to do and everything. Also, the cooler might break.

"Hi," Tom says instead with a grin. "You made it."

"Yeah, it wasn't hard," Barclay says. "I dunno how you got lost at that, mate."

Tom sticks out his tongue. "Must've been for a reason."

Barclay smiles at him softly.

"Yeah, must've."

Before either of them can continue, there's a blue of blonde pig tail braids and an _oof_ from Barclay as Ellie attaches herself to his waist.

"Mr. Beales-Wheels!" she yells. "You're here!"

"'Ello, Ellie!" Barclay lifts her up. "You ready for the big rematch?"

"Yes. We're going to crush them." She slams her tiny fist into her palm, and it's all Tom can do not to laugh. He screws his face up into a serious frown and nods.

"Absolutely, yes," he says and doesn't mention that Ellie has a tendency to trip over her own feet.

"Good." Barclay nods at her. "I do like a good footie match."

"Are you gon' get pizza and ice cream with us after?" Ellie asks. She pokes at his hair with the unabashed honesty of a kid her age.

"Yeah, I think," Barclay says. "Gonna need to celebrate the win, won't we?"

Tom smiles and catches his eye.

"Good. Put me down, please."

Barclay sets her down and Ellie trots over to Tom. She _pssst!_ s loudly and gestures for Tom to lean down so she can whisper to him.

"Coach Tom," she stage-whispers. She's not... the quietest girl.

"Yes?" he stage-whispers back.

"You should make sure to get his favourite ice cream later. So he comes back."

Tom pats Ellie's head. "I'll make sure to do that. You like him that much?"

Ellie shrugs. "I dunno. But you're in love with Mr. Beales-Wheels, and I like you that much."

It's both the most horrifyingly embarrassing and heart-warming moment of Tom's life, probably. Wistfully, he sort of envies her being eight years old and throwing words like 'in love' around so easily.

"Um, thank you," he says and pats her on the shoulder. She grins and then runs back over to the pitch where Lillian is waving at her excitedly.

Ellie points to Barclay and Lillian jumps up and down to wave. Barclay waves back, then sidles over to Tom.

"So. Pizza and ice cream, eh?"

"I'm a fantastic date, as you can see," Tom says and hopes to god he's not as bright red as he feels.

Barclay nudges Tom's hand with the back of his own. "I think so. I'm excited to see your big-city pizza and ice cream."

"It'll blow you away," Tom promises, freeing a finger from his told on the net of balls to wrap it around Barclay's.

"Good." Barclay links his pinkie around Tom's, too. "I can already tell it'll be worth it."

"Well, come on then. I'm gonna run a few warm ups with the kids and then we'll cheerlead," Tom says and starts pulling Barclay over to the kids and their parents.

Once the match is underway, Tom could almost forget that Barclay is there. But there's a fizz under his bones that tells him he's being watched, and every time one of his kids scores a goal, Barclay yells like Ellie or Lillian or Danny is really David Beckham and the little local pitch is Wembley Stadium.

The kids are lapping it up, their parents are grinning over at them indulgently and honestly, Tom can't seem to stop smiling. No one has ever been so happy to have nearly blown up, he’s pretty sure.


End file.
